The Good, The Bad, and The Wealthy
by AntiqueDreams
Summary: Lord help us. I really went for it, guys... A pure, unadulterated orgy of all my favorite clichés. XD You see, when some people indulge their inner weirdness, they write slashy smutfics. Apparently, I write Westerns. So sit back, strap on your forever alone mask, and click to read JN: Wild West Style! Just because I effing CAN.
1. A Pair of Boots

This tale begins with a pair of boots. Custom-made, exhaustively-polished, patent leather boots, to be exact.

The saloon floorboards creaked as the aforementioned footwear set down, and dust plumed out from beneath the soles. The legs that occupied the boots were clad in gray slacks; above that, a golden buckle with the initials "E.S." added extra egotism to a swanky red vest and suit-coat. The head attached to this ensemble had none of its stylish bearing, however – a pug nose, thick eyebrows, and buck teeth completed the man.

"Blix," said Buck-tooth, "we must interrogate this rabble as quickly as possible, before this filthy establishment diminishes the value of my new suit. Ahem - The boots!"

Blix the Butler immediately pulled a rag from his pocket, knelt down, and began polishing. Hunched as he was and dressed all in black, the old man gave the impression of a well-bred vulture. He straightened, bowed, and returned the rag to his pocket.

"Better," said the buck-toothed man, wringing his hands together. "Now, for the rabble..."

Around the saloon, hands crept toward their gun holsters. A trio of grizzly, unshaven men stopped their poker game and glared over at the newcomer. A tattooed hulk by the bar turned around with a growl. A vagrant on the floor licked the blade of his knife, while a giggling drunkard pounded discordant notes on the piano. The barkeep merely looked bored as he polished a glass.

"Rabble, eh?" repeated an extra-fingered lout at nearby table. "Now that ain't no way to talk. No way to talk at all." He elbowed his buddy, who was hammering back shots of fizzy purple liquid. "Is it?"

The second lout coughed, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Maybe rich boy 'ere just needs a taste of our hospitality," he slurred. Snorting, he spat a blob of mucus next to the leather boots. "There y'go," he sniggered, "the first drink's on me."

The patrons erupted into riotous laughter, and in a split second Blix pulled two firearms from his suit. Guns came out all around the saloon, and the butler's employer raised a hand to stop him.

"Down, Blix. The last thing we want is for these flea-bitten scum to start a brawl." The Butler re-holstered the weapons, and Buck-tooth condescendingly tossed the extra-fingered vagabond and his buddy a handful of silver coins. "Get lost," he said. "I'm sure there's a house of ill repute in this two-bit town that accepts cash and greasy old men."

The two drifters flashed him gap-toothed smiles and a thumbs-up, then staggered out of the saloon, leaving the washboard doors swinging behind them. The rich man strolled out into the center of the room, butler in tow.

"I've come to this impoverished rat-hole because I'm looking for somebody," he announced. "Have any of you ever heard of an outlaw called 'Tex'?"

Gasps broke out all around the saloon, and the tattooed muscle-man by the bar whimpered like a little girl. The barkeep stopped polishing long enough to crook a finger toward the far corner, where a lone figure was sitting in silence.

"Over there," he said.

The newcomer and his servant struck out across the room, weaving their way around shabby furniture and the occasional inebriated customer. As they approached, the duo saw that their quarry was reclining in a chair, boots propped up on the nearest table. The outlaw was dressed in brown trousers, a threadbare longcoat, and a tan cowboy hat. The brim of the hat hung down over Tex's face, hiding everything except a crooked smile.

"Tex?" asked the rich man.

"In the flesh, Bucky," answered a female voice.

Butler and employer both backed up a step; they had been expecting a man. Still grinning, Tex raised her chin, and strands of blonde hair spilled over shoulders. The face beneath the hat was delicate and fair, but her skin was streaked with grime, and the intensity of her green eyes hinted at either madness or great talent – or perhaps both.

"_You're_ Tex?!"

"Cynthia Aurora Vortex," she replied with a tip of the hat, "at your service."

"But...but you can't be a gun-for-hire!" exclaimed the rich boy. "You're a woman!"

Tex casually reached into her coat and produced a green-handled revolver. "One well-placed shot with this," she said, "and I could make you a woman too."

Blix's eyes widened. "_M__ein Herr__,_" he whispered, "that gun! Don't you recognize it? It's the famous _Emerald Ire_, the deadliest six-shooter in all Texas!"

"I can see that, you blithering idiot," returned his employer. "Keep quiet."

Tex twirled the weapon around her finger. "So," she began, "what's the son of Rail Baron Strych doing so far from St. Louis? You didn't come this far west just to visit little old me, did you Eustace?"

His mouth fell open. "W-what? I didn't...How do you..."

"How do I know who you are? Your father owns the South-Central Pacific Railroad, you overdressed prat. Anybody with one good eyeball has seen your ugly mug in the newspapers_._"

"Why I never!" he gasped. "How dare you speak to me like –"

She pulled back the hammer on her weapon, and he shut up.

"Anyway," she continued, "you didn't come here to cower in fear of my caustic tongue and superior gunmanship. You came here with a job offer."

Eustace's ruffled feathers settled the instant money entered the conversation. "Exactly. I'm here with a business proposition. I have someone who needs to be, shall we say, 'taken care of', and I've heard from reputable sources that you're the gun for the job."

"I do like to think I've got a corner on the market," she returned. "So, how exactly do you want this fellow 'taken care of'? I offer three packages: scared off, maimed, and six-feet-under."

"The latter. I need this individual dead and buried in a fortnight, and I'm prepared to offer you $1,000 to make that happen."

"My rate is $3,000. $1,500 up front, and the remainder once I've completed the task. Take it or leave it."

"Ah...just a moment." Eustace pulled Blix aside and whispered in his ear. "We must pacify this trigger-happy trollop," he scowled. "Three measly thousand dollars is nothing compared to what we will save once you-know-who is out of the picture and the you-know-what is in our possession." Blix nodded agreement, and the rich man turned back to the outlaw. "Very well, Miss Vortex, you have yourself a bargain."

The butler produced a wad of cash and tossed it disdainfully onto the table. Tex grinned and thumbed through the stack.

"Splendid," she said. "Would you like to see the full details of the arrangement, as drawn up in my official, legally-binding contract?"

"Your what?"

She reached into her coat once again, and this time pulled out a tri-fold piece of paper, which she handed to Eustace. He squinted down at the text.

"What in the...what _is_ this? Even my filthy rich father's lawyers couldn't decipher this! _You_ wrote this legalese? What kind of cold-blooded killer are you?!"

"I'm a fan of the law, when I don't have to follow it."

He tossed the contract back in her face. "Forget the fine print. You'll get your payment when you finish the job. It's as simple as that."

"I admire a man who's direct in his murder dealings," she chuckled, tucking the contract back into her longcoat. "All right, Bucky...where am I off to?"

"100 miles west of here, to an unpleasant little dust-bowl called Retro Valley."

"Retro Valley? Never heard of it."

"No one has. But that will change before long. You see, I'm planning to – "

"Save it, Strych," she interrupted, returning her gun to its holster. "I don't need a backstory. Just tell me the name of the man you want me to kill."

"His name is James Neutron," replied Eustace. "He's the town Sheriff."

* * *

:-O

So remember how I said I wasn't going to write any more fanfiction after finishing _The Other Side of Tomorrow_? Well, I lied.

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT_

-Fact: *** asterisks are actually tumbleweeds_  
_-Fact: There was no South-Central Pacific Railroad IRL. The name is an amalgam of two real companies - the Central Pacific railroad, which merged with the Union Pacific in 1869 to form the first transcontinental railroad - and the Southern Pacific company, which later leased Central Pacific. In this story, the Central Pacific and Southern Pacific railways do not exist...only the Union Pacific does. In my little "alternate timeline", the former two are combined into one imaginary entity, the 'South-Central Pacific Railroad', owned by Eustace's father. The transcontinental railroad would thus not have been formed until sometime in the 1870s, a bit later than in real life. This may or may not be important to the story.  
-Fact: Tex's gun is an 1863 Starr Single Action Revolver. With a range of up to 66ft and easy-to-use design, it was much more popular than its double-action predecessor from 1858, and would have been used extensively by Union Army soldiers. The handle was painted green at some point because I said so.


	2. Pistol Packin' Chica

I was watching part of _Attack of the Twonkies_ last night, and when Cindy auditioned with that song about being a quick-drawin' cowgirl from Kalamazoo, I was like...whoa! This story is more canon than I thought!

Anyway, moving on...

* * *

Far to the west, across miles of sand and wind-hewn crags, the sun rose and set and rose again on a quiet frontier town. At the end of a dusty street, past some flat-fronted houses, a church, and a tiny bank, stood another saloon. The wooden sign that hung from the porch-roof creaked back and forth in the breeze; the words "Retro Valley Juke Joint" were stenciled on in block letters.

Inside, the saloon's owner was wiping down the mahogany bar. She was dark-skinned girl clad in a low-cut magenta blouse and ruffled skirt. Rouge colored her cheeks, and she wore her black ringlets pinned up in a bun. Her bracelets clinked against the glass bottles as she arranged them on the shelves.

"Oye, mami!" came a grating shout. "You never gonna believe this!"

The individual who burst through the saloon doors looked like he might be, for lack of a better term, one burrito shy of a combo plate. He was dressed in a ragged plaid shirt and denim overalls, and he held a pick-axe in one hand. His hair stood on end, and the amount of dirt on his face and arms was almost comical.

"Guess what?"

The proprietor rolled her eyes when she saw him. "Don't tell me. All your crazy prospectin' is _finally_ on the verge of payin' off. You _finally_ found the right spot to dig, and this time it's gonna be different. This time you're gonna strike it rich. Does that sound 'bout right? Or did you 'finally' realize you need to fix that loose screw in your head?"

"Loose screw? Ay caramba,Libby_, _how can you say that? If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times – There's gold in them thar hills! Why won't you believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you, Señor Estevez. And I pray to the Lord Almighty that when you find this legendary gold, you have it melted down and made into a washtub."

He stamped his foot. "I _will_ find it, woman! And when I do, I'm gonna march in here with an armload of nuggets and dump 'em right on the counter. Then you'll see the error of your ways and apologize, right after you grab me by the britches and lay a big wet one on me."

She snorted. "That's 'Miss Folfax' to you, _Señor_...and I'll do you one better. If you ever actually strike gold in that godforsaken patch o' desert, I'll marry your crazy Mexican backside and be done with it."

He grinned. "I'm gonna hold you to that."

Libby shook her head. "Anyway, now that we've got _that_ cleared up, whaddya want? If this ain't your usual gold fever fandango, then why'd you come barrelin' in here? Is Butch face-down in the water trough again?"

"Nope. But there _is_ a pistol-packin' chica dressed like a bandido outside, and she's tying up her horse to your porch."

"Say _what?"_

Miss Folfax and Señor Estevez heard the clink of spurs well before their wearer appeared. Tex burst through the washboard doors and glared into the interior, as if _daring_ any rowdy patrons to speak their minds. When she saw that the only occupants were a prettily-dressed barkeep and a mud-encrusted prospector, she relaxed a little.

"Welcome to Libby's Juke Joint!" called out the proprietor cheerfully. "What'll you be havin', Miss?"

_Information on my target, _thought Tex. She sauntered over and slapped a fistful of dollars onto the counter, and aloud she asked, "What's the most vile, gut-rotting concoction you sell in this place?"

"That'd be the 'Mule Skinner' – 100 Proof Flurp cut with cayenne powder and rotten saguaro and served in a rusty tankard."

"Sounds disgusting. I'll take it."

Miss Folfax set to work making the drink, humming to herself as she fished out a jar of cayenne from one of the cupboards. Se_ñ_or Estevez pulled up a stool beside Tex.

"Where you hail from, se_ñ_orita?" he asked, using his pickaxe as a back-scratcher. "Back East? I don't suppose you've heard any news about that big gold strike up in Arkansas..."

Libby conked him over the head with her stirring spoon. "If she's from back East, then I'm a beef-head Anglo sodbuster. Look how she's dressed! This girl looks like she was born in a saddle and spoon-fed gunpowder instead of mother's milk."

Tex grinned. Saloons were always the best place to gather intel, and this was exactly the sort of woman she liked running in to: sassy, with wits enough to understand the world, but without the discretion to match. All Tex had to do was ask the right questions, and this loose-tongued strumpet would start handing out gossip like communion wafers at church.

"Lots of empty seats," commented Tex, with a nonchalant glance around the room. "Business sluggish these days?"

Libby set the tankard in front of the outlaw. "You're just a touch early for the regulars," she said. "'Course, in a town as small as this, we don't get much of a crowd even durin' peak hours. That's fine by me, though – this here's a Juke Joint, not some filthy cantina south of the border. We come here to drink with friends, not to fight."

"Smart policy," dead-panned Tex. After a pause, she cocked her head to one side. "Say, what is the population of Retro Valley, anyway? I couldn't help but notice when I rode into town...it's not exactly downtown St. Louis."

Miss Folfax looked to the Se_ñ_or. "What would you say, Sheen? Can't be more 'n what...four dozen souls who live here year round?"

He nodded confirmation.

"That's all?"

"'Fraid so. If you're lookin' for action, you should head a few miles up the road, past Sagebrush Sally's ranch. There's a proper town there called Marble Orchard, with a bunkhouse, a workin' post office, a couple bordellos, an' enough liquor to keep you loaded to the gunwhales for as long as you've got coin."

Tex eyed Libby over the rim of the mug. "Wow, sounds pretty lawless. It must be hard to keep order around here, being such wild territory and all. I feel for you."

"Don't worry," sniggered Se_ñ_or Estevez, "this town's different. Safer than any one-horse pueblo in Mexico, that's for sure. Retro Valley is home sweet home, long as you don't mind having locos for neighbors."

"Case in point," drawled Libby, gesturing at the prospector. "But Sheen's right. Marble Orchard gets the criminal types. We just seem to get the loonies. Hardly surprisin' though, when you've got a sheriff who's cracked in the knob himself."

Tex's grip tightened on her cup, and she crafted her next prompt carefully. "I don't know...I've run into more than my fair share of badge-wearing crazies over the years. I doubt yours is anything out of the ordinary."

"You're just sayin' that 'cause you've never met Mr. Neutron," snorted Libby. "He used to be some sort of genius gunsmith back East. Made all kind of gizmos and contraptions for the Union Army durin' the war. I can't imagine why he ditched his cushy life for a dusty, flea-ridden patch of scrub like this, but he did. He owns the whole town, you know." She shook her head. "He really is a decent man, and a fine hand with a gun, but it's like his mind is somewhere else."

Tex made a mental note of 'fine hand with a gun'.

"More 'n just his mind, mami," grinned the prospector. "When was the last time he spent a full day at the jailhouse? He's too busy chasing lightning in the desert and letting his hob-legged perro run after Farmer Wheezer's llamas!"

They both had a good laugh, and Tex cataloged away the information – she'd need to have a word with that farmer. Tex drained the tankard, then slid it back toward Miss Folfax. The outlaw had spun her exit lie before the dark-skinned woman even had the mug in hand.

"Thanks for the refreshments, Libs. I need to tend to my mount before he keels over from hunger – you mentioned a Mr. Wheezer? If he keeps animals, he must have some horse feed for sale. Where can I find him?"

"Up the road apiece. The Wheezers and their grange hands Oleander and Miss Emily run a good-sized farm near the river. You can't miss it."

Tex tipped her hat at them, exchanged a farewell, and took her leave. Once outside, she untied her tawny-colored horse from the porch and sprang up into the saddle. The beast neighed grumpily.

"Easy there, Humphrey," she said, scratching him behind the ears. "The trail's hot. It won't be long now."

She rode him away at a canter, and Miss Folfax appeared behind her, waving a handkerchief in goodbye. "Don't be a stranger, girl!" she called. "Come back an' listen to me sing sometime!"

Tex felt a twinge of guilt. In a roundabout way, she had just manipulated a friendly young woman into aiding in a homicide. She quickly shook off the notion. _It's no skin off that girl's back if the sheriff ends up at the bottom of the river..._

Tex's hand drifted to her six-shooter. The _Emerald Ire _seemed to have a mind of its own, at times like these – it sang in its holster, a verse for every life it had taken. Tex had known that song once, but not anymore. It was a dirge now, and it had grown too long.

* * *

ERMAHGERD tell me what you thought :3

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT_  
-Why yes, Purple Flurp was _totally_ an alcoholic beverage in the Old West XD  
-"Juke Joint" is term for an informal establishment featuring music, dancing, gambling, and drinking, primarily operated by African American people in the southeastern United States. Tons of these "freed slave saloons" popped up after emancipation in the rural south, where Jim-Crow laws generally prevented sharecroppers and other black workers from going to "whites only" establishments. By selecting this name for her business (instead of Saloon, Cantina, or Barrelhouse), Libby is not only paying homage to her roots, but also setting up her bar as a haven for people who are rejected elsewhere.  
-Some colloquialisms:

*Beef-head Anglo Sodbuster = Dumbass white boy farmer

*Loaded to the gunwhales = drunk off your ass

*Marble Orchard = graveyard (a town with this name would've been very dangerous)

*Bordello = brothel

-If you're confused about any of the Spanish words Sheen uses, just google them. ¡_Arriba_!


	3. Grit in Your Girdle

ME LORD, YER WIFE, LADY PART 3 APPROACHES...

* * *

The Wheezer Farmstead was situated on acres of rolling, flower-specked prairie. Bluebonnets and stalks of wheat bobbed up and down in the river-breeze, and Tex closed her eyes, listening to the bumblebees that droned from blossom to blossom. She passed a livestock pen filled with horses, and another with cattle; the beasts flicked their tails to keep flies and other biting insects from settling on their flanks. One more bend in the dirt track brought Tex to a newly-constructed barn. A dozen fuzzy llamas cavorted around the pasture, and the farmer who sat among them looked so at home that Tex nearly missed him. He rested with his back against a stone wall, combing the tangles from a baby llama's wool. Tex trotted up for a closer look.

Farmer Wheezer proved to be a pudgy Irishman – pale, ginger-haired, and covered with freckles. He sported an ugly orange shirt and green suspenders, and he had the cross-eyed squint of someone whose glasses no longer quite did the trick. His legs were altogether too skinny for his roly-poly torso, and Tex had to suppress a chuckle when he heaved himself off the ground to greet her.

"Need some help, Miss?" he asked, before lifting his spectacles to peer up at her. "You are a 'Miss', right?"

She laughed disarmingly, then moved right on to ingratiating herself. "Those are some fine beasts you have there," she said. "I don't know many farmers who raise llamas north of the border."

He beamed with pride. "They're a well-kept secret, Miste– err, I mean, _Miss._ Sheep's wool chafes like grit in your girdle once you've felt llama fur. It's like running your hands over the clouds in heaven."

Tex suppressed an urge to roll her eyes. It was so easy to gain the favor of strangers, as long as you were willing to feign interest in their boring, second-rate lives.

"Remarkable," she breathed, gazing around in exaggerated admiration. "I must say, sir, this farm is the very pink of perfection – I had not expected to encounter such charming scenery or such well-mannered folk when I first volunteered to carry a message to Retro Valley."

"A message? Is it for me?"

"Oh no, sir," she giggled, slipping further into the role of charming ninny. "I have a message for a Mr. James Neutron – you don't know where I could find him, do you? It's quite important that I give it to him straight away." She patted her coat pocket, as if to indicate a letter – knowing that Mr. Wheezer could not see the revolver concealed underneath.

"Aww, sorry, Miss. He won't be back until sundown. He's out in the desert with Goddard right now."

"Goddard?"

"Oh, that's his dog. The two of them always go out into the desert on Fridays. Something about quartz crystals...or was it lightning?"

She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is he really off his rocker, then, like people in town were saying?"

Farmer Wheezer's eyes flashed. "Don't you listen to them, Miss! Our Sheriff is as sharp as they come. You know, he came up with a fancy new irrigator for my crops, and now we have more food than we know what to do with...than the whole town knows what to do with!" He gestured toward the river, and Tex raised her eyebrows in genuine interest.

The outlaw was about to press him further about the irrigation system when she heard footsteps coming toward them. Tex looked to her left to find a young lady approaching through a trail in the flowers. There were daisies in her flaxen braids, and a green bonnet kept the sun off her exquisitely pretty face.

"Carl my love, dinner is being ready now!" Her voice rose and fell in sing-song tones. "Will you be coming in soon for the eating?"

Mr. Wheezer answered in the affirmative, then introduced the woman as his wife Elke. Tex was taken aback. This lady, his wife? Mr. Wheezer was so ugly he could bluff a buzzard off a meat wagon – how in heaven's name had he managed to secure such a stunning bride?

_Money, no doubt,_ concluded Tex grimly. A man who owned a prosperous farm could afford a beautiful woman. _Every girl has her price,_ she thought. _I wonder what mine is?_

"Will you care to be joining us for the dinner, Miss?" asked Mrs. Wheezer.

"Oh...no thank you, Ma'am," replied the outlaw, trying to place Elke's accent – Swedish? "I was just on my way to the Sheriff's."

"Well," said the farmer, "His house isn't too much farther up the road. And if you don't feel like waiting til sunset, you can always leave the letter on his table. He keeps the front door unlocked most days. Unless of course you need to speak to him in person or something..." he trailed off. "Anyhow, don't be afraid to stop by the farm tonight if you need a place to rest your heels and take care of your horse!"

Tex thanked them with a tip of her hat, then steered Humphrey back onto the main track. As the mismatched couple grew smaller behind her, Tex's smile widened into a bloodthirsty grin.

What kind of a Sheriff left his doors unlocked while he was out wandering in the desert? What kind of a person designed and built irrigation systems for his fat, guileless neighbor and his too-pretty wife? Tex was rarely curious about her targets, but this man – this man might prove to be different.

* * *

I'm sick (as usual) and bored out of my mind, so I'd be much obliged if you'd mitigate my suffering with a review :D

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT_  
-I have no idea if llamas were raised outside of South America in the 1870s, but I don't really give a flying crap. CARL IS NOT CARL WITHOUT TEH LLAMAS  
-As an Irishman, Carl's parents would likely have come over from Ireland during the Great Potato Famine of the late 1840s. Most Irish immigrants settled into crappy urban conditions, but some opted to go west and seek greener pastures (literally, in Carl's case). Since Carl would've been born in America, he's got no accent, unlike Elke, who's pretty much fresh off the boat. Prior to the 1890s, Swedish immigrants were not particularly numerous, and they generally failed to assimilate into American society. Elke is doing better than most, then, seeing as she speaks English, is married to a financially-secure dude, and has a way cool bonnet.  
-Carl's green and orange clothes are not only delightfully canon, but also a subtle reference to Ireland's deep-seated religious divide (orange for protestants, and green for catholics, as immortalized in the AWESOME Irish Rovers song "The Orange and the Green". Google it, seriously)  
-Goddard's namesake, the famous physicist and inventor Robert H. Goddard, wasn't born until 1882, so it doesn't really make much sense for Jimmy to have named his dog this. Fortunately, there was another scientist named John Frederick Goddard who was born in the late 1700s, and who was something of a genius chemist. So yeah, in this version of reality, Goddard the dog is named after him instead.


	4. Balsam Soap

This probably needs more work, but eh, whatever. This fic is for fun and stress relief, so frankly I don't care if every sentence isn't a work of art **repeats this mantra to self**

Anywho, it might be awhile before I post another installment, 'cause the next week or so is gonna be craaaaaaaaaaaaaazy

* * *

Tex dismounted when she saw the first plumes of chimney smoke. Pulling some supplies from her rucksack, she led Humphrey to a grove of nearby pines. Chickadees hopped from twig to twig, chirping and flicking their tail feathers; pine needles tickled her face and arms as she pushed aside a branch and sent her horse past. The shade was cool and fragrant, and for a moment she longed to while away the evening among the trees. Instead, she gave Humphrey two quick pats, tied off his reins, and left him to devour his bag of oats.

Tex crept up the hill in a low and stealthy crouch, then peaked over the top. _There it was._ The Neutron homestead sat below her on the plain, and Tex took the lay of the land in silence. A good-sized house on a flat patch of soil...an apple tree...a stable near a dry gully...a set of locomotive parts lying in the middle of the yard...

Despite the lackluster scenery, Tex's heart pounded within her. She stood slowly, and a gust of wind caught her hair and threw back her longcoat. She could smell the desert – that odor of sand and coyote and distant sage, and a wild excitement filled her. There she was, standing on the very edge of civilization, and nobody within 100 miles knew what she had come here to do. Nobody knew what she thought or felt or wanted. Nobody ever did. Not her clients, or her informants, or her victims. There was a power in her loneliness, and over the years Tex had learned to drink it like nectar.

She picked her way down the hill, ears straining against the chirruping grasshoppers. But Goddard didn't bark as she approached, and nothing moved within the house. She stepped onto the porch, and it creaked wearily – and Tex knew she was alone.

She found the front door unlocked. The instant she crossed the threshold, the smells of the interior washed over her. There was sawdust and parchment, woodsmoke and peppermint – but above all, the familiar, comforting fragrance of balsam soap. It was the smell of civilization, and in a flash Tex was back in her childhood, sitting in the front parlor of her family's home. It was all there, in vivid detail: the crisp pages of the book in her lap, the folds of her peach-colored dress, Daddy's too-large slippers on her feet. It was as if the past and present were tethered to each other by a scented string, and she need only look down its length to see herself standing on the other side.

Tex threw off the memory with a shiver and stomped into the front room. A map of Retro Valley hung over the fireplace – which was unlit, Tex discovered with a frown. _Where was the chimney smoke coming from, then? _As she rooted around the house, checking for weapons and valuables, she came across other oddities. There were chunks of quartz on the Grandfather clock, for instance, and a box full of metal cogs occupied the armchair by the door. In the washroom, she found a broken gel-plate camera, and she nearly bashed her head against a hairbrush-and-crank contraption hanging from the ceiling. Continuing with this theme, Tex's foray into the pantry revealed a cactus taking up most of the kitchen table.

The study was the only room that seemed to be in order. A bookshelf soared nearly to the housetop, and it contained tomes with names like _Experimental Researches in Electricity_, _Domestic Quadrupeds: Their Natures and Uses, _and _The Encyclopedia of Infinite Knowledge._ She walked to the far side of the room, where an abacus, some paper, and a jar of ink sat atop a mahogany desk. Without meaning to, she ran her hand over the glossy wood and sighed. _Gorgeous. _

Tex strolled into the master bedroom last of all. The bedspread was the same blue as the curtains, which was the same blue as the throw-rug on the floor, which was the same blue as the chair in the corner. Tex grinned at the Sheriff's decorative sense as she rifled through his belongings. Some keepsakes, a set of candlesticks, a telescope by the window, a wall-safe behind the dresser...

The Grandfather clock struck six, and Tex jumped in surprise. The throw-rug slid when she landed on it, and she staggered sideways and nearly tripped over a heap of unwashed pants. Tex was about to open the obscenity flood-gate when something caught her eye – her accident had shifted the rug just enough to reveal a glimmer of metal underneath. She pushed aside the pants, lifted the corner of the carpet, and threw it back. The outlaw didn't bother stifling her sharp intake of air. There, in the middle of the bedroom floor, was a trapdoor. And it was double-bolted and padlocked shut.

She plunked down on the Sheriff's bed. A trapdoor...to where? What could he be hiding under the house? Big valuables, that couldn't fit in a safe? Contraband? _Bodies?_ Her mind swarmed with questions, then, one insight: _The chimney smoke. There's another fireplace down there._ Tex laid back as she pondered, and the scent of balsam soap wafted up from the comforter. She closed her eyes. _I'll bet he smells like this too..._ Shuddering, the outlaw reprimanded herself for the thought, then jumped up and began pacing.

After about ten steps, it occurred to her that she didn't want to kill him...at least, not yet. You could tell a lot about a man based upon his belongings and his reputation in town, and the Sheriff seemed an oddity in both these categories. Nothing about him fit with the image of a pioneer-town lawman. A Sheriff on the edge of the world ought to be vigorous and austere, not scatterbrained and inscrutable, with hidden rooms under his house. Tex wanted to know more. Curiosity gnawed her insides like hunger, and she fished the murder contract out of her coat.

Her mind raced as she read the words. She would offer him the Get-Out Clause...then she'd see what kind of man he was. She'd unravel him until he had no secrets left. Calmed, Tex tucked the document away. She slid the rug back over the trapdoor, then set out to finish the preparations for his arrival.

* * *

This just in: even in a completely different version of reality, Jimmy _still_ can't be bothered to pick up his pants. XD  
Also Tex is totally lusting after his mahogany desk OH BABY

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT_

-In the study, Tex encounters a book called _Experimental Researches in Electricity_, which was written in 1844 by the great scientist Michael Faraday. His research on the magnetic field around a conductor carrying a direct current established the basis for the concept of the electromagnetic field in physics. He also discovered the principle of electromagnetic induction, diamagnetism, and the laws of electrolysis. His inventions of electromagnetic rotary devices formed the foundation of electric motor technology, and he also created an early version of the bunsen burner. So yeah, cool guy. (The second book, _Domestic Quadrupeds: Their Natures and Uses_ is something I made up; _The Encyclopedia of Infinite Knowledge_ is of course from the JN episode _Time is Money_).  
-In addition to a primitive version of Jimmy's hair-styling gizmo ;) , the washroom contains a gel plate camera, which was invented in 1871 by Richard Leach Maddox. Beginning at this time, cameras could finally be made small enough to be hand-held or even concealed. There was a proliferation of various designs, from single- and twin-lens reflexes to large and bulky field cameras, handheld cameras, and even "detective cameras" disguised as pocket watches, hats, or other objects. The gel-plate camera would mark the high point of photography until 1888, when the first Kodak camera went on sale.  
-Finally, if Tex's reaction to the hidden trapdoor seems a bit excessive, you need to keep in mind that in the 1870s, frontier houses weren't equipped with basements. Root cellars, maybe, but nobody kept those padlocked shut under rugs in their bedrooms. Something like that would have been just a _tad_ suspicious. :-P


	5. A New Constellation

Well, I've re-written this like 15 times, and I think there comes a point where you start to over-work a text, and it just starts getting worse instead of better. If you have any questions while reading this part, don't hesitate to ask - I'm never fully sure whether my writing makes sense or not T_T

* * *

It was nearly dusk by the time James Neutron shuffled tiredly into his bedroom. The kerosene lamp he carried threw long shadows across Tex, who was waiting for him, unseen in the corner chair. She gave him the once-over as he set down the lamp on the nightstand and removed his hat. The Sheriff was a man of average height, with an oversized head and mussed-up brown hair. He wore a faded red shirt and a pair of the same trousers she'd tripped over earlier.

Tex chewed her thumbnail as he removed his gun belt and chucked it onto the bed. _Unarmed and oblivious. Good. _The Sheriff picked up the light again, and then unwittingly gazed straight at her. He flinched when he realized he wasn't alone – but his grip on the lamp never faltered, and Tex was reminded of a rhyme she'd heard long ago: _Drink with friends or not at all, Don't fire 'till you're ready;_ _Beware the man who startled can, still hold his hands a-steady._

Tex could almost see the gears in his head turning as he tried to make sense of her presence. After a pause, he defaulted to the obvious question.

"Who are _you?"_

"I'm God's own blessèd angel," she answered wryly, pushing up the brim of her hat. "Can't you tell by my harp and pearly white robes?"

He noticed the revolver in her hands, and his eyes flicked toward the gun belt on his bed. Tex immediately cocked her weapon.

"Uh-uh, I don't _think _so. You're not gonna get the drop on me, dunderhead. Now take a step back – there's a good Sheriff – and put your hands in the air."

He did as he was told, looking her up and down as he reached skyward. "All right, what's this about? What do you want?"

Tex decided it would be fun to mess with him a little, so she said, "Well, let's think about this, shall we? You're a man. I'm a woman. We're in the bedroom... _Obviously_ I want that Mahogany desk in your study."

He stared dumbly, and she sighed.

"No? Not even a chuckle? Ah well, straight to business, then: this little stick-up isn't about what _I_ want, Mr. Neutron. It's about what my client wants – and he'd very much like to see you dead."

He flinched again, but he looked more puzzled than afraid. Finally he said, "someone hired you to kill me?"

"You've got a mind like a steel trap, sir."

His befuddled expression transformed into a glare. It went straight through her, and Tex's heart rate increased. She knew a dangerous man when she saw one, and this one could go toe to toe with the best of them, even if he didn't know it. _Watch your back,_ came that little voice inside her head._ If you let him get the better of you, you'll end up behind bars – or worse. _

"Dare I ask why I'm still alive, then?" he sneered, interrupting her reverie. "If you're going to execute me, I suggest you do it now, and spare me the taunting. I'd prefer if my last seconds of life weren't monopolized by a no-count, low-down, villainous piece of scum like you."

"Villainous piece of scum? Oh, Mr. Neutron, you positively _wound_ me. And here I was, thinking I might just take pity on you and elect to spare your life."

He rolled his eyes. "Right, yes, of course, and Blaise Pascal lives in my _stable._ Please. You're an _assassin._ You've probably never felt pity in your life. Spare me the theatrics, and tell me what you're after. I'd be dead ten times over already if you were thinking solely of your client's wishes."

_Smart,_ she thought. S_ense of humor could use some work though. _

"I'm curious about you, Mr. Neutron," she said matter-a-factually. "I want to see what kind of a man leaves his front door unlocked, but keeps a double-bolted trapdoor hidden under a rug in his bedroom."

She could see the surprise on his face. "You found that?"

"Uh-huh. You might want to try picking up your pants."

He snorted. "Well, if you're looking for a job as a housekeeper, I'm afraid I'm going to have to reject your application."

Tex couldn't help but laugh. "I'm still technically employed, thanks. My client just failed to read the fine print in our contract." She cleared her throat before narrating the terms. "Ahem. As stated in paragraph 5, line 6 of the homicide-for-hire agreement, I reserve the right to offer the target – that's you – a chance to save himself, provided that the target – that's you again – proves to be of more value alive than dead."

"Value? How could I possibly be of value to you?"

"Well, that depends. There are only two types of men who matter in this world, Mr. Neutron. Those who have money –" she tapped the side of her head "– and those who have brains. Everyone else is just a scribble in the margins. Now, the fellow who hired me is a member of the rich boys' club, so if you want to trump his hand, you're gonna have to outspend him. Let me put it to you simple: pay me more than he did, and I'll hightail it out of here without another word."

"Ah, I see how it is. And how much did he pay you, this man who sent you to put a bullet in my head?"

His angry stare was thrilling, and she challenged it with a half-mad grin. "$1,500," she answered.

"What happens if I cannot afford the fee? What then? No wait, let me guess – my value as an asset steeply depreciates."

"Not at all! You misjudge me, Sheriff; I am deeply sympathetic to budget constraints. If your wallet proves too thin, you can rest assured that you still possess something I hold in high esteem..._entertainment_ value. And sweet Lord above us, I am _hankering_ for some entertainment. Here's the deal: you seem like a clever man, and I'd love to see you put your wits to work. If you can figure out a way to surprise me...no, _impress_ me...three times within the next week, I'll let you off the hook for free. However –" she spun the cylinder on her revolver "– I am not easily overawed, and if you fail to impress me thrice by Friday next, I'll have no choice but to carry out my client's wishes. It won't even be a murder, Mr. Neutron. You will simply disappear."

Tex waited for his reaction, her finger hovering a hair's breadth above the trigger. The metal was fast warming to the temperature of her skin.

"$1,500 to save my life?" he said at last. "_Fine._" She kept her revolver trained on him as he stalked over to his dresser and slid it aside, exposing the wall-safe Tex had spotted earlier. Holding the kerosene lamp in his right hand, he input the combination with his left. The door swung open, and Tex tensed, ready to shoot if he pulled a weapon from the safe. Instead, he removed a bundle of paper money. The Sheriff turned to face her, running his finger along the stack to showcase each individual bill.

"Here we are," he told her. "$1,575. My entire savings."

"All right. Come forward slowly and drop the money at my feet. No funny business, either."

He crossed the distance between them, and Tex nodded to herself. Order had been restored. He might have secret rooms under his house, but deep down, he was just like every other man: prosaic and buyable. Tex was about to offer another scathing remark when the Sheriff did something she wasn't expecting: he didn't drop the money. He kept right on walking until he was standing directly over her, and she had to fight the urge to shrink back in the chair. The light from the kerosene lamp flickered over both of them, flaring and dying and flaring again, as they locked gazes.

"Look at you," he said, "sitting there with your revolver, assigning a dollar value to my existence. Is that what life and death is to you? A transaction? The mere notion is despicable, and I won't stand for it. If I wanted to continue putting money into the hands of crooked scoundrels, I would've stayed in Massachusetts."

"Massachusetts? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about _you. _About everyone like you. People who think the world can be bought and sold like a bag of flour. Well I've got news for you, Miss – what you said before, about there only being two types of men that matter – you were wrong. There's only _one_ type that matters, and I intend to show you which it is." He tapped the side of his head. "I'm talking about _this_."

With a look of contempt, the Sheriff removed the glass shield from the kerosene lamp. He tossed the shield onto the bed, and Tex stared at the exposed flame in bewilderment. _The glass? Why would he take off the gl– _Then it hit her like a brick wall. _No. He wouldn't. There's no way in a million years._..

But he did. He lowered the cash into the open flame, and the whole stack caught fire. The bills curled back like corn husks, before charring and crumbling into his waiting palm. Just like that, a small fortune up in smoke – and along with it, his easy way out. Still glaring, he dumped the ashes into Tex's lap, then leaned over her.

"Impressed yet?" he said.

Tex couldn't answer.

...

Hours later, and Tex was still awake. She lay on the Sheriff's roof, listening to the chorus of nighttime sounds – crickets in the grass, the whispering wind, a whip-poor-will trilling in the faraway pines. Humphrey munched on hay inside the stable, and Tex wondered if her horse preferred its security to the open night air.

Rolling over, she gazed up into the sky. It seemed to fill all of existence, arcing from its zenith overhead right down to the tips of her peripheral vision. She knew every inch of the heavens by heart. When she was little, her Daddy had taught her the names of the constellations, but she still preferred to imagine her own. Draco was The Coiled Rattlesnake; Cepheus was The Courthouse. Cygnus was no swan...it was a vulture circling the Milky Way, and Lyra was a miniature lasso. Tex felt a kinship with these alternate constellations, because they fit her world in a way ancient myths never could.

Where, then, would a figure like James Neutron fit into the skymap she had created? Everything about him seemed out of place. She had never before met a man willing to throw away his lifeline just to one-up an opponent. What sane individual would stand over an armed killer and _burn_ $1,575? What kind of person forsook guaranteed salvation in favor of a gamble, just to prove a point? The whole thing filled her with a frightened kind of awe. It was difficult to admit, but she could scarce remember a time she'd been _more_ impressed.

_If it's a challenge he wants,_ she thought,_ he'll have it. Starting tomorrow, the game begins in earnest. One down, two to go_.

* * *

SNAP SNAP SNAP JIMMY AIN'T HAVIN' NONE O' YO SASS

Hope you liked the chapter, because who the hell knows when I'll find time to write the next one.

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT  
_-Believe it or not, I actually researched the history of steel to see if "mind like a steel trap" would be an 1870s-appropriate snarky remark. Turns out, the modern era in steel-making began with the introduction of Henry Bessemer's 'Bessemer Process' in 1858. So booyah, take that history, I know you.  
-If you've ever suffered through the binomial expansion unit in Algebra class, chances are you've heard of Blaise Pascal. Pascal was a a French mathematician, physicist, inventor, writer, and Christian philosopher who lived in the 1600s; he invented, among other things, a mechanical calculator, Pascal's Triangle, and Pascal's Theorem. He is also remembered in theological circles for positing the idea that, although we cannot know whether or not a God exists, there's more to be gained from wagering that he _does_ exist (because if he doesn't, well...nothing happens, but if he does, you get rewarded for your belief). Nowadays this is known as _Pascal's Wager_, and is a favorite point of discussion for philosophically-minded hipster college kids everywhere XD  
-In case you were unclear about just how ballsy burning $1,500+ would have been in the 1870s, let me put it into perspective for you. In modern dollars, that comes out to somewhere along the lines of effing _$30,000_. If you're now wondering why Tex charged Eustace double that amount for one measly hit, it's because he's rich as all get-out and probably wouldn't blink at dropping 20k on an urn. She figured as much and took advantage of it. And if you're further wondering why the hell the Sheriff would have 30k in modern dollars in a safe in his room...well, you'll have to wait and find out ;-) (Hint: he's not a hooker)


	6. Cacti for Companionship

Guys, get ready. This installment, I'm going to do the impossible: I'm going to make the threat of litigation..._sexy._ Watch and be amazed!

* * *

Tex woke to the scent of fresh-baked bread. After ages of nothing but trail rations, one whiff was all it took to send her stomach into conniptions. Hopping up, she stretched her stiff limbs, then climbed down from the roof and followed her nose inside. She sauntered into the kitchen to find the Sheriff at the table eating breakfast. He still wore last night's clothes, and his hair was standing up like the fur on a spooked cat. He froze when he saw her, a piece of toast raised halfway to his mouth.

Eager to harass him, Tex swaggered over and snatched the food right out of his hand. She bit into the flaky crust as she eased herself into the chair opposite him, and he looked on in astonishment.

"You – you took my toast!" he stuttered.

"Mmmm, yeah," she said, licking her fingers, "and it is _delicious_. Much obliged."

He scowled at her, and Tex decided he was more attractive when he was angry. Smacking her lips, she leaned back and surveyed the pantry. In daylight it was cheerful and bright, with white curtains, hickory cabinets, and pale green wallpaper. Any pretense to normalcy ended there. Jars filled with grasshoppers lined the windowsill, and yesterday's dirty dishes lay in a mechanized basin on the floor, surrounded by all manner of gears and pulleys.

And then there was the matter of the five-foot-tall cactus sitting smack-dab in the middle of the kitchen table...

"So," she chomped after moment, "are you going to introduce me?"

"Introduce you?"

"Yeah, you know. To your cactus. The two of you must be very close, always taking your meals together and whatnot."

The Sheriff glanced up at the towering plant. "Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "I don't keep cacti for companionship. That saguaro is a part of an ongoing experiment of mine. It has to sit in that exact spot, or the test will fail."

"Wow. No wonder you're still a bachelor."

He glared again, and Tex swiped his fork. He immediately leaned forward and snatched it out of her grasp. "Look," he said, "since you clearly mean to antagonize me for the rest of the week, could you at least do me the courtesy of sharing your name? I didn't catch it while you were waving a gun in my face, putting up your horse in my stable, or sleeping the night away on my roof."

"Apologies!" she chuckled, before reaching over to the cactus and snapping off a spine. She used it to spear one of the sausages on his plate, then ate the pilfered morsel in one bite. "Mmm...Cynthia Aurora Vortex, at your service, Mr. Neutron. You can call me Tex for short."

Exasperated, he shoved the whole dish over to her. "Here! Help yourself, Miss Vortex. I can see you're determined to have my breakfast regardless of my feelings on the matter."

"I told you; it's 'Tex', dunderhead." She picked up his coffee mug and took a swig. "Nothing more, nothing less."

He snatched the coffee back from her and pounded the remaining liquid. "I _refuse_ to utter monosyllabic criminal pseudonyms," he declared, slamming down the cup. "And since I cannot abide the thought of being on a first-name basis with a felon, you'll have to settle for your last name, _Vortex._ If you ever decide to take a bath and delouse yourself, perhaps I'll reconsider."

"Tch. Fine by me, _Neutron_. Just remember that I have both our pistols in my belt, and I've always got one hand ready for the draw...in case you get any _smart_ ideas."

His grin was threatening. "You just wait. You'll find out...you'll see what I can do. I'm going to beat you at your own game, you little minx, and once I've finished impressing you, I'm going to haul you off to jail for conspiracy to commit murder. I'll see you stand trial if it's the last thing I do."

"Pffft, good luck getting a conviction. What evidence do you have? Last night's conversation? Not gonna cut it. I know the laws of this country like the back of my hand, and if you take me to trial, I _will_ get myself exonerated."

"No evidence?" he murmured. "Hmm, I suppose not. Unless of course, you had a written copy of that homicide contract you mentioned yesterday. Perhaps concealed somewhere, like inside that longcoat, or in your hat –"

Tex felt a twinge of alarm. Of course, he couldn't know that she carried a copy of the contract in her pocket. She resolved to destroy it at the first opportunity.

"My client has the contract," she lied, "and he's hundreds of miles away by now."

"How unfortunate. It appears I'm out of luck, then." He twirled the fork back and forth, flipping it with the precise control of a surgeon. "Or maybe," he continued, in a tone that made her hair stand on end, "you won't get a trial. Maybe I'll ignore _Habeas corpus_, and just let you waste away in the Retro Valley prison, until there's nothing left for anyone to find."

Tex's breath caught in her throat, but before she could retort with a counter-threat, a strange tapping sound filled the pantry. Mr. Neutron raised a finger to shush her. _Blip blip blip, bliiiip bliiiip bliiiip, blip blip blip... _He listened intently, and when the noises ceased, he sprung up from the table. He fetched a suede vest from the back of his chair and buttoned it over his shirt.

"Hey Neutron, was that–"

"Morse Code?" he completed, pinning a star-shaped badge to his lapel. "Yes. There's a Western Union telegraph line not far from here; I tapped into the wire so townsfolk could contact me in the event of an emergency. Not sure which one of them sent it, but if I heard the message right, it seems a brawl has broken out in the town square."

"Brawl? Never mind the brawl! How the devil did you manage to tap into a Western Union line?"

Instead of answering, he whistled. "Goddard, where are you, boy? Don't tell me you're still chasing after that infernal squirrel! Must we go through this every morning? I've told you countless times, it's a futile endeavor!"

Tex heard the click of nails on the hardwood floor, and the Sheriff's dog trotted into the pantry. Goddard took one look at the outlaw, wagged his tail, and went to sniff her boots. As he approached, Tex realized he was missing a leg. A harness held a metal prosthetic in place; it was the same gray as his sleek fur.

"You made a mechanical leg for your dog?" she exclaimed.

The Sheriff eyed her sideways as he knelt to stroke his pet. "As the week wears on, my dear, you may find I have a variety of talents." She raised an eyebrow, and he straightened. "But for now, duty calls. Goddard and I are bound for the town square to break up the fight." He extended a hand. "Seeing as I may find myself in harm's way on this venture, I'll be needing my weapon back now. I'm sure you understand."

She snorted. "Sakes alive, Neutron, you must think I'm a halfwit. But never fear – I'll protect you. Until the week's up, you can think of me as your personal bodyguard. Wherever you go, I'll go too. I promise, nobody will shoot you but me."

"I...don't even know what to say to that." He shook his head. "Go saddle up our horses, Vortex. If you can do it in under two minutes, I'll even buy you a drink at Libby's."

* * *

...Because sharing food and drinking from the same cup is romantic, right? RIGHT?

Also, seriously, WTF kind of experiment is he doing with that cactus? Just...Jimmy, just stop it, OK? Your mealtime companion is a saguaro. Look at your life. Look at your choices.

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT  
_-OK, Morse code, here we go. In 1836, American artist Samuel F. B. Morse, physicist Joseph Henry, and mechanist/inventor Alfred Vail used their bro time to kick back, hang out, and create an electrical telegraph system. However, because the telegraph was basically limited to blips, bleeps, and periods of silence, language would have to be transmitted via code. Morse was like, "I got this", and he sat down and came up with the forerunner to modern International Morse code (which was then standardized in 1865, and is still used today). The message heard in this chapter - 3 short, 3 long, 3 short - comes out to "SOS", the universal distress signal.  
-_Western Union_ was and still is a financial services and communications corp. It was created in 1855 when two competing telegraph companies merged and became this weird monopoly juggernaut that ate up other companies like cheez-its. By 1860, it had built telegraph lines from the East Coast to the Mississippi River, and from the Great Lakes to the Ohio River. In 1861, it opened the first transcontinental telegraph, facilitating near-instantaneous communication between the east and west coasts. Prior to this, message delivery depended on the _Pony Express_, which employed horseback riders to carry letters in staged relays between stations (where fresh horses and riders were waiting). At the absolute fastest, a Pony Express message would take about ten days to make it from one coast to the other. Imagine waiting ten days to read one freaking email...

-Vocab, in case you didn't already know:  
*Minx - a pert or impudent young woman  
*Habeas corpus - known as "the great writ", this requirement-by-law states that a person under arrest must be brought before a judge or into court. It protects against unlawful or indefinite detention, and it has historically been an important legal instrument safeguarding individual freedom against arbitrary state action (and pissed-off sheriffs)


	7. Three Sheets to the Wind

Well, I hope you guys like colorful language , 'cause there's plenty of it in Part 7 XD... which could just as easily be titled "Tex and the Sheriff both try to do something nice for the other, and then both get pissed off about it."

Also, in response to the people who've asked why the chapters are so short...it's because they're not actually chapters. They're _scenes_, like if you were watching an old Western film. Sometimes there will be gaps for the viewer to fill in :)

* * *

They rode into town amid a cloud of kicked-up dust. The Sheriff had trained Goddard to sit behind him in the saddle, and the dog panted happily as the horse galloped, ears flapping in the wind. Tex frowned. When charging into danger, it was always best to look as intimidating as possible, and the sight of a goofy, drooling dog was likely to have the opposite effect.

Once they reached the square, however, Tex began to understand the Sheriff's lack of caution. It wasn't a proper brawl at all, merely a belligerent man yelling insults at another fellow across the street. Still, just to be safe, Tex drew both guns as she dismounted. She approached the shouting man and found him to be squat, unkempt, and ugly, with a bulbous jaw and hair that hung over his eyes. He clutched a near-empty jug of Flurp in one fist, and there were purple stains all up and down his striped shirt. The target of his jeers was another story altogether: a story that began with 'tall', continued with 'tan', and ended with 'exceptionally, fantastically good-looking'.

"Get back here, Injun Nick, y'hear me?" yelled the squat man. "Yer dumber 'n a rocks of box...pox of..." His face reddened from the exertion of trying to form a coherent sentence. "Box a rocks! I said it before, Ninjun...Injun Nick, an' I'm a...ssshay it again: this town ain't big enough fer the two of us!"

Injun Nick affected amused indifference. He pulled a cigar from his buckskin jacket and popped it into his mouth, then proceeded to chew on it, unlit, as though it were a stick of candy.

The Sheriff threw up his hands as he dismounted. "Really Butch? A_gain_? How many times do you plan on disturbing the peace? So help me, I _will_ throw you in a jail cell if you keep this up!"

Butch stumbled around to face him. "What're you on 'bout? Jim-Jam-Jimmy? Yyyy'know, I used to beat the tar outta dandies like you when I weren't only THIS high!" The drunk swung up an arm to indicate a child's height, and he nearly pitched backward in the process. "Tha's howsiss...how izz..how..."

"Hang it all, Butch, it's 9 in the morning! What is the matter with you?"

"Well, if you want my expert opinion," remarked Tex dryly, "I'd say he's three sheets to the wind, Sheriff."

"I know _that! _I'm asking him _why_ he feels the need to be _this_ inebriated before noon!"

Butch's observational skills must have been operating on a delay, because he suddenly gaped up at Tex. "Wait just a damned minute, isssss'at a _lady_?" He lifted his hair out of his eyes to get a better look. "...It _is _a lady! Well I'll be a son of a! I didn't know you'd gone 'n got yerself a hanger-on-er, Sheriff. Dad-blasted.. how come I'm the only man in this whole damned...this whole damned town who can't get hisself a woman?" He pointed a calloused finger up at Goddard, who still sat in the saddle. "You let your doggone...dog...you let him ride in yer pillion, but you still get a woman, an' I don't? It ain't fair! I wouldn't piss on your teeth if your mouth was on fire!"

"Oh, that is _charming, _Butch. But she's not my woman. Think of her as...my deputy for the rest of the week. I'd watch your mouth around her, if you know what's good for you. She possesses a short temper and an itchy trigger finger."

Tex gave both pistols a flashy twirl, but Butch had already turned back to Nick. "This is your fault! You take all the good ones...girlsh, every girl I set my eye on, you gotta come in an' steal her away. That's whatchyare, Nick...a _thief._ Thief thief thhhhhief. You think you're ten feet tall and bulletproof, but you're no better 'n me!"

Injun Nick tossed back a lock of raven hair. His voice, which was gravelly and disaffected, added to his suave demeanor. "Uhh...I hate to break it to you, Butch, but you're ten pounds of ugly in a five pound bag. You're never gonna get girls looking like that. So yeah, if you're wondering why Brittany went for me last night instead of you, it's cause you smell like the northbound side of a southbound mule. Might wanna work on that, padre."

Nick flipped up his jacket collar, repositioned the cigar in his mouth, and headed off down the street. He walked with a pronounced limp, Tex noticed – a stark imperfection in his otherwise flawless appearance.

"Northbound side of a–!" spat Butch. "You! You gotta face like a bulldog lickin' wizz off a nettle! Come back here! I'll beat you like a rented mule, you half-breed Comanche _gimp!_"

Nick stopped in his tracks. He hesitated several seconds before strolling off again, and Tex knew that Butch's epithet had angered him. Nick tucked his hands into his pockets as he walked off, whistling lazily. This time, though, he camouflaged his limp with a swagger.

Butch continued hurling insults into thin air, and Tex scratched her chin in thought.

"If you're wondering about the limp," said the Sheriff, answering Tex's unspoken question, "the origin story grows more spectacular with every retelling: grizzly bear attack, wrestled God, that sort of thing. Personally, I think he just broke his leg a lot as a kid."

Tex stared after his retreating figure. "Mmm, I see. A tall dark man with a mysterious wound. How...intriguing."

The Sheriff took one look at her expression and frowned. "I wouldn't set your sights on Nick Dean, if I were you. He's a trapper by trade, but his real profession is womanizing. He's a rounder, Vortex, and he's got lovers and debts in every town from here to San Antonio."

"What's this?" She whirled round to face him. "Concerned for my easily-besmirched honor, are we? I appreciate the sentiment, but if you'd care to see the morrow, I suggest you mind your own business. I've been managing my own affairs since I was fifteen, thank you very much, and I don't intend to stop now."

"Suit yourself."

Evidently Butch needed no provocation to change targets, because he turned to the Sheriff and narrowed his eyes. "Hey, I heard that. You laughin' at me, huh? You think that's funny?"

"What? Butch, I wasn't talking to –"

"_Huh_?! You...you and yer woman, you think _I'm_ funny? _I'll_ show you funny!"

He pitched the Flurp jug at the Sheriff's face, and Tex didn't think – she just raised her pistol and fired. It was an incredible shot, and the ceramic container shattered in midair. Butch fell clean over from surprise, the horses bucked, and Goddard was nearly thrown from the saddle. Shards of pottery exploded outward; some landed, tinkling, on the dusty street, and the rest rained down on the Sheriff. Most of the fragments bounced harmlessly off his vest, but one grazed his cheek and left a small cut. He shook the largest of the chunks from his hair, before turning on Tex with a venomous glare.

"What are you trying to do," he yelled, "pepper me with shrapnel? You can't just blow up a ceramic vessel three feet from my face, you trigger-happy imbecile!"

"What?" Tex shouted back. "You ungrateful jerk! I just saved you from getting smacked upside the head with a big fat flying jug!"

"I would've dodged it! I'm perfectly capable of holding my own in a dangerous situation. I'm not some incompetent first-timer who needs protection, least of all from an unscrupulous, uneducated degenerate like _you._"

The reproof stung more than it should have, and she retorted with vitriol. "_Uneducated_?! You think _this_ is a 'dangerous situation', and you're calling _me _out for ignorance? Hell's bells, how sheltered are you?"

"_Sheltered_? Just because I don't fraternize with the dregs of society–"

"Hey! I don't fraternize with _anyone _unless I'm – hey, what the – whoa!" Tex nearly toppled sideways as Butch grabbed hold of her leg. He snagged her coat with his other hand, then proceeded to haul himself up arm over arm, using her clothing as a ladder. Butch had changed his tune, as drunken louts are wont to do, and he babbled out apologies as he steadied himself against her. If she was scandalized by the physical contact, Tex gave no sign of it. Instead, she favored the Sheriff with an angry glance.

_Uneducated. I'll show you uneducated..._

When Butch finally regained his balance, Tex patted him on the shoulder. "Good news, my inebriated friend. Excessive alcohol consumption has impaired your judgment, so you won't understand the gravity of the charges I'm about to convey upon you. Let's review...disorderly conduct, public drunkenness, unwanted bodily contact with a morally-upstanding young lady... And then there's assaulting an officer of the law, which is a a class six felony carrying one to five years' imprisonment, with a minimum mandatory period of incarceration of not less than six months. Now, a proper lawyer could probably get that charge knocked down to simple assault, but seeing as there's no courthouse or judge or _anything_ in this two-bit town, you'll have to settle for justice the Vortex way."

He blinked stupidly. "The what?"

"Goodnight, Butch."

Tex punched him in the face, and he was out cold before he even hit the dirt. He lay there, snoring, with a dimwitted look on his face, and Tex turned back to the Sheriff in triumph.

Mr. Neutron appeared mildly stunned. "You...you didn't read him his rights," he blurted after a moment.

"Nonsense. He's exercising his right to remain silent even as we speak."

The Sheriff looked down at Butch, then back up at Tex. He frowned. "I don't understand you, Vortex. Killer, vagrant, quick-draw...attorney? You'll have to forgive me if I don't see the connection. Is there an explanation for any of this?"

Tex shook the soreness from her knuckles. "I used to be someone, Neutron. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime." Grabbing both horses by the reigns, she turned and strolled off toward Libby's Juke Joint, her coat billowing behind her. She motioned for him to follow. "Come on, Sheriff, we've done our civic duty."

"But...but we can't just leave him in the middle of the street!"

"Sure we can."

"Look, Vortex, Butch isn't _all_ bad...I mean, sure, he _is _a bully and an ignoramus, but he's a first-rate carpenter, and he's really only a nuisance when he's intoxicated..."

"Don't get your dander up, Sheriff. He'll be _fine._ At any rate, he'll be sleeping off this bender for a coon's age...and in the meantime, I believe you owe me a drink. Horses saddled in one minute and forty five seconds, remember? It's time to pay up."

The Sheriff regarded the outlaw with something akin to resentful admiration, then trotted off after her.

* * *

MWAHAHA! At long last, I have achieved my dream of using the iconic phrase "this town ain't big enough fer the two of us"!

And now, a minor note on Butch. It's tough to convincingly age-up a minor character in the best of circumstances, but add on a regional accent, a time period shift, AND a drunken slur...well, not sure how well I did. I figured "town drunk" was at least vaguely similar to "school bully", since both are people you just wanna deck in the freakin' face. Incidentally, I based Butch's behavior on my friend Morgan - who, when intoxicated, turns into a belligerent jackass.

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT  
_-The Comanche are a Plains Indian hunter-gatherer tribe with a horse culture. Their historic territory consisted of present day eastern New Mexico, southern Colorado, northeastern Arizona, southern Kansas, all of Oklahoma, and most of northwest Texas. I figure Nick's Dad was of European descent, while his Mom was a Comanche from the latter locale.  
-Those of you who are familiar with the history of law may wonder why the Sheriff mentioned "reading Butch his rights", when this protocol (known as Miranda Rights) wasn't made mandatory until the 1960s. The Sheriff was referring to Butch's _5th Amendment _rights (the part of the Bill of Rights that allows people to keep silent in order to avoid self-incrimination), and he was doing it voluntarily. 'Cause honestly, out in newly-settled territory, lawmen could do pretty much whatever they wanted with minimal oversight. Jimmaaay's makin' himself some oversight ;)  
Meanwhile, Tex doesn't give a shit.

-Vocab:_  
_

*Pillion - A pad or cushion for an extra rider behind the saddle on a horse

*Three sheets to the wind - rip-roaring drunk

*Don't get your dander up - chill the hell out


	8. Secondhand Mirth

This installment is all over the place... I hope it proves interesting nonetheless.

* * *

Tex tapped her fingernails against the tabletop as she waited for the Sheriff to get back with the drinks. He was taking his sweet time at the bar, shooting the breeze with Miss Folfax, and Tex exhaled her irritation. Goddard nuzzled her leg from under the chair, and she patted him as she surveyed the room. She hadn't given it much thought before, but the Retro Valley Juke Joint had to be one of the cleanest and best-decorated saloons in all Texas. A painting of an opera house sat above the piano, and Libby had matched the rest of the room to its maroon and gold color scheme. A fiddle hung beside the bar, and a velvet curtain half-concealed a quaint little country stage and an adjacent back room. It was upbeat, inviting, and packed to the rafters with good cheer – frankly, Tex couldn't comprehend how the whole place hadn't been ransacked by thieves and shot full of bullets ages ago.

"Sorry for the wait," came the Sheriff's voice. "Thanks to a certain _someone,_ I had to explain to Libby why a gunshot interrupted her morning tidy-up."

Tex turned to find him beside the table, carrying two full glasses of milk. He set one down in front of her, and she gaped at it as he took his seat.

"_Milk?_" she guffawed. "You brought me to a saloon and ordered me _milk?"_

"What? I promised to buy you a drink if you saddled the horses in under two minutes. I never specified what _kind_ of drink."

Tex pulled her hat down over her ears. "Ugh, God's teeth! You're right, you wily bastard! Next time I'll be sure to...hey..wait a minute..." She peered into his face, and her eyes widened. "Oh holy hell, you're not one of those crack-brained Temperance Leaguers, are you?"

"The anti-alcohol crowd? Not by a long shot," he replied. "I just consider it unwise to ingest liquor before the midday mark. But never fear – if you'd still care to drink come suppertime, I'd be happy to oblige you. After all, once you've fallen into a drunken stupor, it'll be a simple matter to roll you over, help myself to those pistols, and handcuff you to a piece of furniture."

"Oh-ho! How sporting of you to warn me. But I'm afraid you've got it wrong, Mr. Lawman. I never, _ever _get drunk unless I'm with someone I trust with my life. Do you have _any_ idea what would happen to me if I passed out in the wrong company? I'm a woman in the wilds_, _Sheriff_._ Assuming I was lucky enough to even wake up afterward, I doubt there would be much felicity left for me in living."

This seemed to trouble him, and he frowned into his milk glass. In the ensuing silence, Libby's voice rang out from somewhere in the back room.

"Hold up just a second more, Sheriff! Almost got the money together now. Just gotta count a couple more coins out the tip jar..."

"I already told you, Miss Folfax," he shouted back, "there's no rush. Take your time."

_'Almost got the money'?_ thought Tex. _What is she talking about?_

She treated the Sheriff to a quizzical squint, and he lowered his voice. "Listen, Vortex, just so we're clear, I want you to leave the townsfolk out of this. You are _my _problem, not theirs. I told Miss Folfax that you're a deputy-in-training from Red River County. That's your identity now, so if anyone asks, you tell them that you're here to obtain field experience under my guidance, understand?"

Tex choked on her milk. "Oh, you have got to be kidding– Field experience, under _your_ guidance? Sweet mother Mary above. I hope you've got smelling salts on hand, Sheriff, 'cause if you keep talking like that, I'm liable to have myself a laughing fit."

"Just...shh! Just go with it, all right? We need to keep our stories straight. It's not like I'm asking the impossible...I imagine you're well-accustomed to telling lies about yourself, being a vicious, evil backbiter and all."

Tex kicked him under the table, and he clenched his jaw in anger, but held his tongue. Seconds later, Libby emerged from the back room carrying a white envelope. Her walk was jaunty, and there was a hint of pride in her smile as she approached the table.

"Here we are, Mr. Neutron," said Miss Folfax, "the last payment. $15.25, as promised, and in full." She handed the envelope to the Sheriff, who tucked it into his vest pocket – without, Tex noticed, checking to make sure the money was inside. Libby noticed too, and she rolled her eyes. "Sheriff, you sod-for-brains naïve trustin' fool, you're ruining my fun! You're supposed to look _inside_ the envelope first. Go on. Open it!"

Puzzled, he retrieved the parcel from his vest and popped open the paper flap. Tex leaned across the table, watching as he pulled a piece of stationery from among the dollar bills.

"It's an invitation!" blurted Libby, before he'd even had the chance to read it. "The Retro Valley Juke Joint has been in business a full year now, an' as of today, my loan is finally paid off. _Naturally_ I'm throwin' a party to celebrate. Monday night, startin' at 6pm and goin' 'til daybreak, we are gonna happify ourselves into oblivion. Everyone who's anyone is gonna be there...Mr. 'n Mrs. Wheezer, Oleander and Miss Emily, Brittany, Injun Nick, Ike, Nissa, Wendell, Doctor Bolbi, Ignishka, Butch if he's sober enough to walk through the front door..."

"...Señor Estevez?" suggested the Sheriff, with the slightest of eyebrow-raises.

"_Yes_, the Señor. Lands' sakes, it wouldn't be a party without Sheen staggerin' 'round half plastered, prattlin' on about Cabarrus, North Carolina and the biggest gold nugget ever dug up..."

Mr. Neutron started cracking up, and Miss Folfax followed suit. Tex smiled into her milk glass, and for a moment she basked in second-hand mirth...then she remembered what she was: a stranger with a gun, seated across from a man with a cross-hair on his heart, listening to an inside joke about someone she barely knew. Her smile quickly faded.

"And Miss Tex," continued Libby, "I expect to be seein' your pretty face there, too. I've never met a lady deputy before, and I'd love for the two of us to get better acquainted. Plus, let's be honest...you could probably teach the Sheriff a thing or two 'bout Texas shindigs, am I right? I swear, if Mr. Neutron spends one more town get-together sittin' in the corner doin' sums on my napkins, I'm gonna flip my lid."

Tex kept her gaze on the table. "Me. You're inviting _me _to your party. ...Why?"

"Simple. Mr. Neutron was the one who lent me the money to build this place. He got me on my feet, set me up with the essentials...gave me an interest-free loan, when nobody else with two cents to rub together would even _blink_ in my direction. I owe him a lot, Miss Tex, so any friend o' his is a friend of mine. Yourself included."

Tex peered over at the Sheriff from underneath her bangs, trying to get a read on his expression. He was watching her watching him, however, and he merely took another sip from his glass. Libby gave both of them a funny look, but before anyone spoke, a loud _knock-knock-knock_ interrupted from the other room.

"Sorry," grimaced Libby, "would you two excuse me for a second? I got someone at the back door." She hurried off to attend to it, and Tex looked down at the table again.

"So," she said, tracing a finger along the rim of the Sheriff's glass, "you sweet on her?"

Mr. Neutron seemed genuinely taken aback. "Miss Folfax? Not in the slightest. Why?"

"Oh, just trying to figure out why anyone would give an interest-free loan to a woman with no visible capital. Way I see it, you're either sweet on her, or you're a business-challenged idiot."

His expression darkened. "Keep quiet about things you don't understand, Vortex. I didn't do it for her."

"Then who'd you do it for?"

A grating voice echoed from the back room, followed by a short burst of laughter. Libby stuck her face out of the doorway and called to Tex and the Sheriff.

"Apologies for runnin' off," she half-chuckled, "but we got us a situation back here. Doctor's pet goat got loose again, and this time he went after Sheen. Bothersome varmint knocked him into some brambles and ate half his shirt off."

The prospector muttered something to Miss Folfax, and she answered him over her shoulder. "Don't you back-sass me, Señor Estevez...I got two more of your shirts above stairs. And no, _not_ the one that caught fire last week – I told you, I can't mend giant gapin' cinder holes! What? Ya, I'm comin'..." She turned again to her guests, mouthed the word 'sorry', then disappeared into the back room. Tex and the Sheriff heard creaking as the proprietor and her charge ascended the staircase up to the second floor.

"Ah," said Tex, after their footsteps had faded, "so it's the prospector. _He's_ the one who's sweet on her."

"Eureka," Mr. Neutron replied dryly. "Problem is, no woman in her right mind is going to settle down with a man who spends most of his time camped out in the desert with a pack mule." The Sheriff sighed. "Look, I'll make it simple for you. When I left Massachusetts a year and a half ago, I was alone. Carl and Sheen were the first real friends I made after I bought this valley. They may have their idiosyncrasies, but they've treated me better than my own family, and I don't take that sort of thing lightly. Sheen wanted Miss Folfax to stay in town until he could get better situated, so I made it happen. That's what I do, Vortex._ I make things happen_."

Tex stared at him. "Hold up a second. That's a touching story of loyalty and can-do attitude and all, but...did you just say that you _bought a valley? _How does one 'buy' an entire _valley, _pray tell? I mean...burning wads of cash to impress me, financing saloons, purchasing major geographical features...just how much money do you _have?"_

"Me? $15.25. My _parents_? ...More than some mid-sized countries, I'd say."

"Your parents?"

He sighed again. "My father is a big-shot investor back East. He owns a controlling stake in the corporate empire of Mr. Hank McSpanky. Long story short, back when McSpanky was just a penniless entrepreneur, my father struck a bargain with him – a full partnership, in exchange for $50 of start-up cash. Obviously it paid off."

Tex gripped the edge of the table. "Wait...Agri-King McSpanky? The smelly, crazy-eyed tycoon who's wealthier than the dreams of avarice? _That_ Hank McSpanky?"

"The very same."

"Jesus Christ on a crutch," blinked Tex. "You must be _rolling_ in it."

"My _parents_ are rolling in it, not me. They reduced my yearly stipend after I showed no interest in stock trading and refused to marry McSpanky's pedigreed twit of a niece. That $1,500 I burned really _was_ the last of my funds."

"You passed up easy money and a dumb broad who'd do whatever you want?" She shook her head. "Bonehead move on your part, Neutron."

"Easy for you to say. You didn't have to grow up in that household. My parents were _obsessed_ with their financial empire. They didn't care if I gargled liquid nitrogen and set the drapes on fire, as long as Hilgo the maid cleaned it up afterward. I spent most of my childhood locked in the backyard summerhouse, filling my spare hours with research and scientific experiments."

"Experiments, huh? You mean like your pet table cactus?"

"Yes, like my – no, not like the cactus, curse you! Would you quit harping on that?"

She hid a smile. "All right, so you don't get on well with your parents. That doesn't explain why you came west. You could be living the high life with some gorgeous society lady in Richmond or Boston right now. Why come _here?_ Why buy Retro Valley? And why appoint yourself town sheriff, instead of mayor, or blacksmith, or...anything else, really? No offense, but you don't particularly strike me as the rootin' tootin' gunslinger type."

The _clunk-clunk-clunk_ of descending footsteps forestalled the Sheriff's reply. He and Tex turned to find Sheen standing in the doorway, scratching at the starched collar of his new teal shirt.

The Señor nodded to Mr. Neutron. "Oiga, amigo! What you doin' with pistol chica, eh? You two friends now or somethin'?"

"Coworkers," corrected the Sheriff. "Sheen, this is Tex. She's...a deputy of sorts. I'm training her for the remainder of the week."

"Oh, lucky man! Maybe that's what I need, you know? Get me a couple gold-hunting disciples, teach 'em the ropes, maybe trick 'em into doing my laundry..."

"I already do your laundry, you cockamamie addle-head," said Miss Folfax, appearing from the back room. "And if you don't take a bath soon, next time I wash your clothes, I'm gonna pitch you into the washtub along with the load. Hold you down and scrub you like flea-ridden cat."

"Gotta catch me first, mamacita," winked the prospector.

Libby exhaled in defeat. "Sheriff," she went on, "pay Doctor Bolbi a visit on your way home, would ya? Tell him he needs to keep that bloodthirsty goat o' his locked up. If I catch that thing roamin' 'round my property again, I'll be servin' up goat pot-pie at Monday's get-together."

"Mmmm, nothin' beats goat pot pie," said Sheen appreciatively. "Except maybe rotisserie squirrel...mmm, yeah, smothered in possum gravy with a side of gecko gruel. That's the stuff."

The Sheriff pushed away from the table. "Sheen, your lifestyle choices never cease to astonish me. Miss Folfax, thanks again for the drinks and party invitation. I'll have a word with the doctor and let you know what he says tomorrow morning, when we see you at church."

He nodded politely, adjusted the top button on his vest, then headed toward the door. Goddard yawned and obediently rose to follow, and Tex leaped up a moment later.

"Church?" repeated the outlaw, hurrying to catch up with him. "You're gonna make me go to _church?_"

He held the door open for her. "What's the matter, Vortex? Does your kind burst into flame when you pass beneath a steeple?"

Her snappy objection launched the pair into a fast-paced repartee, and they continued to argue as they exited the building. Miss Folfax watched them go, scratching her chin as the washboard doors swung shut behind them.

"Huh," mused Libby. "Yesterday that girl acted like she'd never heard of the Sheriff in her life. Day later, they're hangin' round my juke joint, spoutin' sarcasm and givin' each other the hairy eyeball, like they got some big secret I don't know 'bout. Bit odd, wouldn't you say?"

"Nahhh. People all got some big secret, right? Take my mule Sal. She acts all innocent, like she don't know who ate those pepinos I got from Carl...but I know better. I _know._"

"Oh, pish." Miss Folfax picked up their empty glasses and tucked them under her arm. "I'm gonna get to the bottom of this, you'll see. Those two got somethin' goin' on, and I'm gonna find out what it is. I bet you a three-dollar piece I have 'em figured in less than a week."

"Make that a three-dollar piece and a half-pound of taffy, and you're on."

"Deal," she said, and they shook on it.

* * *

Let the small-town gossip begin. ;)  
Also, I _finally _got to do the saloon milk joke. I told you guys...every cliché I can muster :D

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT_  
-When Tex talks about "Temperance Leaguers", she's referring to a nineteenth century reform movement that was aimed at limiting or restricting the sale and consumption of alcoholic beverages. The American Temperance Society was formed in 1826, and within 12 years it claimed more than 8,000 local groups and over 1,500,000 members. By 1839, 18 temperance journals were being published, and in the 1840s the movement spawned a series of Broadway plays about the dangers of drinking. The most famous of which, "The Drunkard", was wildly popular and continued to be a staple of the New York theater scene until 1875, bringing the Temperance movement into mainstream consciousness in the process.  
-Since I mentioned handcuffs...let's have a look at their history, shall we? Wrist restraints have been around forever, but there weren't really any handcuffs in the modern sense until 1862, when inventor W.V. Adams patented a design for cuffs that had adjustable ratchets. His design was used all the way 'til WWII.  
-Anyone who has read a good (or bad) Victorian novel has probably heard of Smelling Salts. Historically, the pungent preparation of ammonium carbonate and perfume was sniffed as a stimulant to relieve faintness or fits of hysteria.  
-Libby bets Sheen a three-dollar piece - this coin was minted from 1854 to 1889. Its value was intended to tie in with the postal system - at the time, a first class postage stamp was worth 3¢, and such stamps were often sold in sheets of one hundred stamps. Therefore, the three-dollar piece was exactly enough money to purchase a sheet of stamps.

P.S. For the minority of you who haven't seen the episode "Time is Money" - that's where Jimmy's back story comes from. Watch it.


	9. A Mere Regional Enterprise

Sorry about the hiatus, guys! As the great Chinese philosopher Lao Tzŭ once said, "shit happens". ;)

Anyway, if you find yourself confused by certain revelations in this chapter, that's OK. I intended for you to be confused. The plot will become clear soon enough.

On we go...

* * *

Far away, in bustling downtown San Antonio, Eustace Strych was having a very different sort of morning. From his suite on the second floor of the Menger Hotel, he could monitor all the comings-and-goings outside, a duty which he performed with self-satisfied disdain. He stood by the window, glowering down at a couple of local gentry as they climbed into a horse and buggy across the street. The man wore a frilly yellow waist-coat; his lady friend hitched up her skirts far too high as she boarded the coach. Eustace tugged at the lapels of his silken dressing gown, as if aligning them could somehow mitigate the _faux-pas_ of fashion and etiquette he saw down below.

"Look at those simpering peons," scowled Eustace, as his butler entered the room. "They think they're high society because their town is famous throughout the West. The _West_, can you imagine! They can't even muster the civility to call it 'St. Anthony' instead of that Mexican drivel – it's _ghastly._ Yes, Blix, the sooner we catch the train back to St. Louis and bid farewell to this backwoods rat hole, the better."

"_Mein Herr_?"

Eustace glanced back to find Blix still standing in the doorway. The butler held a tray heaped high with steaming foodstuffs.

"What are you waiting for, you domestic buffoon?" cried the rich man. "Set out the tray and the silverware before it gets cold!"

Blix made haste to comply, and Eustace strolled over to the breakfast table, oblivious to the opulence of his surroundings. The room was exquisite: carpeted in blue and papered in violet, it sported a four-poster bed with imported linens and matching curtains. The furniture was all hand-carved and accented with animal designs – the table legs tapered into lion's paws, for instance, and the nearby oval mirror featured an eagle perched atop its arch. Eustace paused to examine his reflection before sitting down.

"So tell me, Blix, what did the proprietors of this hovel prepare for my morning meal?"

The butler laid a cloth napkin over Eustace's lap as he narrated. "Buckwheat crêpes with sautéed apples and Gruyère cheese, poached eggs, and potato-crust quiche with leeks and mushrooms. To drink, fresh-squeezed pear juice and sugared coffee. The chef sends his apologies – the Menger staff was unable to accommodate your request for truffle-stuffed sweetbread."

"Hmph." Eustace grumpily surveyed the place setting. The dishes, which were blue and white porcelain, seemed clean enough, but the utensils were not polished to his standards. He picked up the fork and squinted at it. "Wipe this 'til it gleams, will you? And hand me the newspaper before you do."

The butler reached into his coat, removed the Saturday morning paper, and exchanged it for the dirty fork. He rubbed the utensil down with a spare napkin while his employer flipped to the financial section of the _San Antonio Express._ A column on the bottom of the page caught Eustace's eye, and the buck-toothed man stopped mid-yawn. A second later, he jumped up, jostling the table and nearly upsetting the pear juice. He stared down at the paper in horror, eyes flashing from side to side as he sped through the article.

"What is it, _Mein Herr_?" asked Blix, still polishing. "Is something the matter?"

By the time Eustace looked up again, his hands were shaking, and his voice was half-hysterical. _"Yes,_ something's the matter, you great twit!" he shouted. "THIS! Look at this!"

He turned the paper round and flashed the headline at his butler: NORTH-CENTRAL PACIFIC & UNION PACIFIC RAILROADS ANNOUNCE TALKS FOR MERGER

"How could this _happen?_" he wailed. "HOW!? This announcement is six _months_ ahead of schedule! Don't you understand what this means? We've already invested millions building westward, preparing to link up with the Union Pacific Line. If North-Central Pacific gets there ahead of us, we won't just lose our investment – we'll lose only our chance to be part of the first transcontinental railroad! South-Central Pacific will be forever doomed to obscurity as a mere regional enterprise!"

"Shall I telegraph your father, sir?"

"What for? This whole thing is his fault! We wouldn't be in this pickle if he'd spent more time working to expand our profits, and less time convincing his uptown golf buddies to use their riches to 'benefit the people' or whatever... My father has no sense of progress anymore, Blix. He's content to sit around the mansion and indulge his hobbies, even as our competitors snap at our heels!"

Blix set the polished fork down on the table. "Then how do you propose we handle this, sir? If North-Central really is poised to beat us to the punch, we'll need to act swiftly."

"Agreed, Blix – swiftly, and without mercy." Eustace wrung the newspaper like a sodden cloth. "First off, we'll need to reformulate our most recent plan. When I dispatched that assassin after Neutron, I counted on having at least three months for his will to be processed and for the sale of the land to go through. At this rate, North-Central and Union Pacific will have already merged by the time we lay claim to Retro Valley soil. No, the old plan won't work anymore – a more extreme approach may be necessary." The rich man sighed heavily, as if wounded by the whole affair. "You know how I _abhor_ getting my hands dirty, Blix – but I'm afraid it cannot be helped this time. We'll need to obtain further local assistance."

"I'm not sure I understand you, Master Strych."

Eustace tossed the balled-up newspaper at his butler. "You don't _need_ to understand me!" he snapped. "You need only do as I say! Now get your servile posterior down the river and check the showboats. Track down Eddie, even if it takes all day and night...and when you find him, bring him here. I believe he may be of further use to us."

"Should I tell him _you're_ the one behind this invitation, _Mein Herr_? When I consulted him last week about finding a reliable gun-for-hire, I made certain to keep your identity a secret, as you instructed..."

"I'm rescinding that instruction," huffed Master Strych, settling back into his chair. "If Eddie asks who sent you, tell him. And if he balks at the invitation, don't be afraid to sweeten the deal. Tell him I can make it worth his while."

The butler gave a stiff bow. "Would you like anything else before I leave, sir?"

"Nay, begone. My throat is hoarse from yelling and my crêpes are getting cold."

Blix exited the room without another word, and Eustace turned at last to his breakfast.

* * *

Tell me what you thought, simpering peons! ;)

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT  
_-The Menger Hotel is a real (and awesome!) landmark in San Antonio. It was built by German immigrant William Menger in 1859, 23 years after the fall of the nearby Alamo. By the 1870s, the Menger was the best-known hotel in the southwest. Over the years, it has hosted such famous guests as Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, Babe Ruth, and Oscar Wilde. Teddy Roosevelt visited 3 times, most famously in 1898 when he used the bar to recruit the Rough Riders, who fought in Cuba in the Spanish-American War. The Menger Hotel is still in operation today, holding the unofficial title of "The Most Haunted Hotel in Texas."  
-The _San Antonio Express_ was a legit newspaper. It grew from uncertain beginnings in the 1860s, but after its competitors went out of business, it expanded into a full newspaper in the 1870s. Today, it is the third most-circulated newspaper in Texas, but is now known as the _San Antonio Express-News_, thanks to a merger with a competitor in the 1980s.  
-As I said before, there is no South-Central Pacific or North-Central Pacific Railways - I made them up to replace the real-life Central Pacific Company, which linked up with Union Pacific to form the first transcontinental railroad.


	10. Retro Valley Jilse

I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!

Apologies for the hiatus, guys. First I had to go out of state for my best friend's college graduation, then the holidays consumed my attention for a week, then I had to confront some recurring health issues that've left me stressed and unproductive...but you don't want to hear my excuses. You want to read the next chapter, and here it is!

I hope you're all ready to meet everyone's favorite fat, derpy Backhairistan native!

.

* * *

As it turned out, Dr. Bolbi wasn't hard to find. Tex and the Sheriff had barely finished unhitching their horses when they spotted him: he was out in the street, crouching over the unconscious Butch like some great, fat buzzard dressed all in tweed.

Mr. Neutron grimaced. "Stay here, Goddard," he muttered, and with a heavy sigh, tossed the reins back over the post. He started off toward the doctor, and Tex trotted after him.

"Dr. Bolbi Stroganovsky," said the Sheriff as they approached – it was more of a statement than a greeting. "Care to explain why you're squatting beside an unconscious man in the middle of the square?"

The doctor looked up. He was a toad-faced man, with puffy cheeks and bulging eyes that seemed to gaze off in opposite directions. He wore three-quarter pants and a scarlet bow-tie, and his brown hair was parted in the center and oiled flat against his scalp. Tex automatically scanned him for weapons, but saw only a tattered carpet bag clutched in one stumpy hand.

"_Doctor_," repeated the Sheriff, "didn't you hear me? _What _are you doing?"

Bolbi pointed at Butch. "Man is dead, yes? Bolbi fix him up good, no problems?"

"You can't 'fix up' up a dead man," returned Mr. Neutron irritably, "but that hardly matters, seeing as he's not dead. Butch is suffering from the effects of over-consumption, that's all. He should awake in a few hours – with a pounding headache, I'd imagine, but no worse for the wear."

The corpulent doctor sprang up. "Headache? You have headache?"

"I didn't say tha–"

"Bolbi will fix!" The doctor popped open his carpet bag and began rooting around inside. The sack contained dozens of identical brown vials, and the Sheriff stared on, baffled, as Bolbi selected one and presented it to him. "You take this," he instructed. "It will cure headache in only one hour, with big guarantee! Doctor Bolbi will sell it for cheap, $2 only. Is real good deal!"

Before the Sheriff could respond to the unexpected sales pitch, Bolbi removed a second vial from the bag and waved it at Tex. "Bolbi has too, medicine for pretty lady! One drink makes all your skin so soft and clear. Bolbi promises solemn vow: you will be more beautiful, or Bolbi gives back $1 price!"

Tex took one look at the unmarked bottle, and then turned straight to Mr. Neutron. "If this bohunk's a licensed physician, then I'm President Grant. Why haven't you run him out of town?"

The Sheriff hung his head miserably. "That's the rub – he _is_ licensed – and it's not a forgery, as far as I can tell. Of course, his credentials were issued overseas, so even if they're 100% authentic, that's no guarantee of competence. His ethics are certainly sub-par, given that he spends most of his time trying to sell people his mystery elixirs. And every once in awhile he'll find some poor sod like Butch and drag him back to his workshop, then charge an exorbitant fee for 'life-saving treatment'..."

"So...that is yes?" interrupted Bolbi, glancing from one to the other in earnest. "You want special-offer medicine?"

"That would be a resounding 'no', you potbellied quack," answered Tex. "We're here on official law enforcement business. We've had a complaint about your pet goat harassing the citizenry. You need to keep that fleabag locked up, or the next time you see him, he'll be marinating on a spit. Do I make myself clear?" Bolbi's expression remained vacant, and Tex realized she'd have to simplify her instructions. "You. Bolbi. Your goat. Bolbi's goat is outside. Hurting people. Put the goat inside your yard. Do not let the goat out. Do you understand?"

"Ah yes! Doctor Bolbi understands! No more letting outside Yuri the musical goat!"

Tex opened her mouth to repeat the bizarre moniker, but then thought better of it. When Bolbi made no move to leave, or indeed to do anything other than stare blankly into space, she treated him to a scowl. "Well," she snapped, "what're you waiting for? That shirt-eating menace is still running amok in the streets! Go find him. Go on! Get!" She aimed a swift kick at his rear end, and he scrambled off down the street, bottles tinkling all the way.

Mr. Neutron watched him go, and after a pause, he said, "You know, for a second there, you actually sounded like a real deputy-in-training. Authoritative and direct, though perhaps a bit overzealous... you almost fooled me into thinking you cared about public safety."

"Yeah, too bad I'm just a soulless void," she shot back sarcastically. "Real shame, isn't it?"

"Yes. It is."

He turned and walked back toward the horses, and there was something in his voice that made Tex wish she hadn't spoken. _Is that really what people think of me? _she wondered as she rushed to catch up with him._ That I have nothing of value inside? _

She fell into step beside him. "I'm not a complete monster, you know," she blurted. "I would care about public safety, if there was a 'public' to care _about. _Decent, civilized people are a rare breed in these parts, Neutron. I live in the company of cutthroats and defilers, and they'd happily flay the skin from my bones if I gave them the chance. But you know what? They never will get that chance, because I'm smarter and faster than all of them." She hesitated before adding, "Just like I'm smarter and faster than you."

He stopped in his tracks, and slowly turned round to face her. "Oh really? Is that so?" She could sense his unspoken challenge, and it thrilled her.

"Yes," she grinned. "It _is_ so."

He withdrew his gaze and continued walking. They stopped beside the horses, and he reached up to pet Goddard, who was perched behind the saddle. "Hmm. Smarter...faster...I guess it remains to be seen, Vortex. I'm sure the week will provide ample opportunities for us to demonstrate our respective abilities." He tugged his horse's reins free of the hitching post. "But, in the meantime, I fear that I have some mundane activities to attend to. There's an errand I've been meaning to run since Tuesday, and it's high time I took care of it." The Sheriff climbed onto his horse, then nodded at the outlaw. "Well? Are you accompanying me or not? Mount up!"

Tex swung up into the saddle in one quick, graceful movement. It made the Sheriff's ascent look woefully slow and ponderous, and Tex flashed him a triumphant smile. "Superior agility: check," she said, before taking off down the street at a gallop.

"Slow down, Vortex!" he shouted, barreling after her. "You don't know where we're going!"

"Then I guess you'd better catch up!" She called over her shoulder.

After a bit of a race up the road, they eased up on the reins and matched strides with each other. A thought had occurred to Tex, and she voiced it as soon as he pulled up beside her.

"Don't you think it's dangerous," she asked, "not having a real doctor in Retro Valley? What if someone falls ill, or busts a leg or something? Disease and misfortune never sleep in the back country."

"You needn't worry," he said confidently. "Bolbi has a twin sister, Ignishka – and what her brother lacks in ethics, she makes up for in medical know-how. She doesn't have a license, and she can't speak a lick of English, but I saw her set a broken ankle once when Bolbi was away...it was masterful. So you see, we are not without recourse in the event of a disaster. And of course, if all else fails, the townsfolk can always turn to me for help. I lack formal training, but I've studied medical theory, and my understanding of physiology goes far beyond the rudimentary. I am well-versed in all matters of the human body."

_Well-versed in all matters of the human body_._.. _He spoke these words with a scientific air, but that didn't stop a slow tingle from creeping over the outlaw's skin. A cavalcade of indecent thoughts followed suit, and Tex was caught so off guard that she nearly veered her horse off the track.

"Trouble, Vortex?" asked the Sheriff, raising an eyebrow. "Glass of milk too much for you?"

Color rose in her cheeks, and she whirled away from him. Two heartbeats later, her embarrassment surged into anger, and she squeezed the reins until her fists shook._ How dare he, _she thought. _How dare he get into my head like that. __I can't afford to entertain improper notions about a target!_

"...Vortex?"

"_What?_" she snapped.

"We're here."

Tex shook her head to regain her bearings; they had stopped in front of a gray building on the outskirts of town. Grateful for the distraction, she sized up the structure and found it to be thoroughly unimpressive. Weeds grew unchecked along the foundation, the paint around the windows had begun to peel, and the porch looked like it had seen better days. Even the sign above the entrance was in disrepair: it read _RETRO VAL EY J IL SE._

Tex jumped down beside the hitching post, and the gravel crunched beneath her feet. "Jilse?" she asked, shading her eyes as she looked up at the word. "What the Sam Hill is a _Jilse_?"

"That's _jailhouse, _Vortex," he said as he tied off his horse. "Some of the letters blew off in the storm last week. I haven't gotten around to fixing them yet." The outlaw's green eyes flashed, and Mr. Neutron grinned. "What's the matter...does my dear deputy have an aversion to establishments of good repute?"

Tex glared at him and defiantly marched toward the porch. As she stomped up the stairs, the lawman emitted a shrill whistle.

"Goddard, door!" he called.

To Tex's surprise, the Sheriff's dog bounded past her. The gray canine hopped up onto his hind legs, took the handle in his mouth, and pulled down. The door swung inward, and the Sheriff motioned for her to enter.

The outlaw's mouth dropped open. "But...how did you...you trained your dog to..." she tripped over her words.

"Yeah, I know. I'm amazing. Now go on, go inside!"

Still astonished, Tex looked down at the Sheriff's pet, who had curled up on a mat next to the entrance. His wagging tail went _thump thump thump _against the surface of the porch. "Uhh...thank you...dog," she said awkwardly, before stepping over the threshold and into the jailhouse.

The floorboards creaked as she stepped inside. The interior was as drab and uninspiring as the exterior – dust coated the stacks of paper on the desk, and cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. The whole place had a musty, foreign smell...nothing like the balsam drafts of the Sheriff's house.

Tex planted her hands on her hips. "_This_ is your jailhouse?"

"Yup," replied the Sheriff, appearing behind her. He removed his hat and tossed it onto the desk. "It's pretty bare-bones, but it suffices. How does it strike you?"

"How does it strike me?" She turned a slow circle as she appraised the facility. "It's a disgrace, that's how it strikes me."

"_What_?"

"You heard me_._ Look at this place!" She walked the length of the room, sneering more with each passing step. "Windows, filthy. Walls, rickety. Personal safeguards, nonexistent. And – look at this!" She came to a stop outside the prison's only jail cell. "A jailhouse, with only one cell? Are you_ mad?_ What if a posse of bandits rode into town tomorrow? What would you do with them all?"

"I –"

"What if you arrested a man and a woman at the same time? Were you planning on throwing them in there together, with that bed right in the corner?"

"Well I –_"_

"Be quiet! What kind of a lawman are you, keeping your lockup in this sorry state? The trapdoor in your _bedroom_ has better security, for God's sake!" She pointed past him. "Look here. Your desk falls within the prisoner's line of sight...that means whatever vicious convict is locked up in here is free to watch you go about your business. Bad idea. You want the perpetrator sequestered away, where you can see him, but he can't see you. And that bed I just mentioned, is that a box-spring? Because any thief worth his salt could use one of those springs to pick the lock..."

The Sheriff edged closer. "You seem to know an awful lot about jailhouses. Firsthand experience, I presume?"

"Not as an inmate," she answered. "When I was a kid, our town had itself a regular crowbar hotel. I used to swing by on occasion."

"Childhood visits to the local penitentiary. Now that _is_ interesting. Any other incarceratory wisdom you'd care to dispense?"

"Yeah, as a matter a fact, there is. For starters, take a good long look at that back wall. It's made out of flimsy pine boards – can't you see the problem with that? Hell, when I was bounty-hunting in Nacogdoches, I saw a lady blast a hole through a softwood wall using a Ruger that she'd hidden in her bustier..."

If Tex had been paying attention, she would have noticed the Sheriff steadily drawing nearer. She would have caught him unfastening the clasp on his badge, would have seen him repositioning the pin so that it hung on by a thread. But Tex wasn't paying attention. She was having far too much fun lecturing him on the prison's shortcomings.

He came up behind her. "All right then. Which sections of wall would you recommend replacing?"

"Sections?" repeated the outlaw. "Forget sections!" She swept her arm in an arc. "I'd redo the whole thing, corner to corner, from the bottom plank up..."

He leaned forward, as if to get a better look...and the badge he'd carefully loosened fell from his vest. It struck the threshold with a _ping!_, bounced once, and rolled into the cell's open doorway.

Without thinking, Tex bent to pick it up. "Hey dunderhead, you dropped your –"

The Sheriff shoved her forward with all his might. Caught off balance, she stumbled into the cell, and he slammed the door shut behind her. The metallic _clang_ hit her harder than any gunshot ever could, and she spun and lunged at the barrier – but it was too late. Panic buzzed in her ears and prickled over her skin, and rage wasn't far behind. She turned on her captor like a cornered animal, teeth bared in a snarl.

He leaned nonchalantly against the cell. "You know, you look pretty good behind bars."

"Go to hell!" she shouted. "You have no right to lock me in here! I demand that you release me this instant!"

"Well, which is it? Should I go to hell, or release you?"

Tex pulled her revolver from its holster. "Open the door, Neutron," she hissed, pressing the barrel against his stomach. "Open the door, or your last meal will be lead. I _mean_ it."

"My my, _someone's_ in a temper. And here I thought you'd be impressed with my ingenious plan to prove my superior intelligence. Life's full of surprises."

"I'll pull this trigger! I MEAN it!"

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Nah, I don't think you do. See, killing me won't get you out of there. For all your bluster about inadequate facilities, this jail is more than capable of holding you. I had no part in constructing this building – the previous owner of this valley left it for me – but I _did_ design the cell you're in. It's not just a set of wraparound bars...it's a _cage,_ with pine planks laid over the back to join it with the wall. Oh, and the door is secured by a custom deadbolt, so I hope you brought some sophisticated lock-picking equipment. You could try shooting it open, of course, if you'd fancy a nice bullet ricochet."

Tex lurched forward and grabbed him by the shirt. She yanked him down to her level, and he caught hold of the bars to steady himself.

"Idiot!" she yelled. "You think you're all high and mighty, just 'cause you managed to pull a fast one on me? You don't have a _clue._ You live in West Texas, and you have _one jail cell_. Need I go on?"

He wriggled in her grasp. "I don't _need_ more than one cell, Vortex. Retro Valley is a safe haven, and I've taken steps to make sure it stays that way. In the year and a half I've lived here, I've never once had to throw anyone in jail...until you, of course. Congratulations."

"Ignorant, presumptuous rich boy! You think past luck is a guarantee of future security? Safety isn't _permanent! _I don't care _how_ idyllic this precious little town seems right now. Sooner or later the outside world _will_ get a hold of this place, and when that happens, it'll go to straight to hell, just like every other settlement in this godforsaken territory. You mark my words."

"It doesn't have to be that way. Not if someone is willing to stand up and protect it."

Tex pulled on his shirt until the fabric strained. "This isn't Massachusetts, Neutron!" she shouted. "There is no justice, no order, no _sanity _this far into the sticks_. _People out here are savage as a meataxe, and they will take whatever they want from you, whenever they want it. Got that? You stand in their way, and I swear to you...you won't be an obstacle for long. They will _eat you __alive._"

He grabbed her by the hand. "Like you did?"

Tex jerked back, cradling her hand as though she'd been stung. Her fingers were still tingling from the coarse warmth of his shirt, and she rubbed them distractedly before returning her pistol to its holster. "That's...that's different," she stammered. "I'm not the one who wants to kill you."

"All right, then – who does?"

Silence.

"Well?" he pressed. "You _do _know his name, don't you?"

Her lips drew into a tight line. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Sheriff. There's a non-disclosure agreement in my gun-for-hire contract...it stipulates that I cannot reveal the identity of my clients without their express permission."

"What if I tried guessing? I have a fair number of enemies back home, and I wouldn't be surprised if one of them resorted to violence. You could give me a signal, blink twice when I hit on the right one..."

"_No_," Tex said firmly. "I'm fond of loopholes, but I'm not an out-and-out oath breaker. The terms of my contract are very clear on this matter."

He was quiet a moment. "All right. I can respect that." He relaxed his grip and eased himself down against the bars. "Another kind of information, then – information on you. You're not the easiest person to pin down, you know. What's your story?"

"People can't be reduced to a single story, Neutron. You'll have to be more specific."

"The childhood visits to prison, then. Let's start with that."

_No details,_ cautioned her inner voice. _Information is ammunition._

"Fair enough," she said after a pause. "I see no harm in answering that." The outlaw retreated a few steps, folded her hands behind her back, and began pacing up and down inside the enclosure. "I used to visit the jailhouse, Mr. Lawman, because I enjoyed talking to the prisoners. Listening to tales of their exploits, mocking them for their failures, lording my freedom over them – I was a pretty rotten kid, you see. I got a kick out of thinking I was better than everyone else."

"Did your family know you were fraternizing with convicts?"

"My father encouraged it. My parents moved to Texas to help 'civilize the West', as they called it – my mother was a schoolmarm, and my father was an attorney. He dreamed of bringing law and order to the frontier, and he said my 'childlike insights' into the criminal mind helped him be a better prosecutor."

"And your mother?"

Tex stopped. "She didn't care what I did, as long as my actions didn't reflect poorly on her. My mother's mission in life was to convince the world that we Vortexes were the greatest of all God's creations. She was a firm believer in her own innate superiority."

"Ah. A belief shared by my own parents," he said wryly. "All right, next question: how does the daughter of a small-town prosecutor end up becoming a professional gunslinger? I doubt you laid in bed at night as a child and dreamed of living a life on the lam."

_You're right,_ she thought. _I dreamed of happier things._

"No more questions," she snapped. "I'm done revealing secrets, unless you'd care to surrender some of your own. How does that sound, Neutron – want to show me the skeletons in your closet? Open yourself up to scrutiny and judgment? ...No?" She kicked the door frame as hard as she could. "Then _open the damn door_!"

Exhaling in resignation, the Sheriff fetched the key ring from a peg on the opposite wall. He turned the key in the lock, and the hinges squeaked as the door came open. The second she was out of the cell, Tex turned heel, grabbed him by the shoulders, and rammed him against the bars.

"So help me, Neutron," she hissed, "if you _ever_ try anything like that again, I'll...I'll..."

"You'll _what_? Shoot me? Go ahead. Nothing's stopping you. I'm easy pickings, after all. Isn't that how you see me? A five foot, ten inch target with a price tag attached?" She scowled and jerked away, and he dusted off his vest with an air of finality. "That's what I _thought._ Now let's get a move on – I wasn't lying about that errand I had to run. I just...allowed us to get a little bit sidetracked first."

He stooped down and retrieved his badge from the floor, and Tex had to resist the impulse to smack him upside the head. In the end, her resentment found another outlet – she stormed over and snatched the Sheriff's hat off his desk.

"You've lost your hat privileges," she said primly, brushing off the brim. "I'm confiscating it until I deem you worthy of its return. Oh, and don't be surprised if it acquires a few bullet holes by the time it finds its way back to you. I'm simply _hopeless_ when it comes to trigger control." With that, she stuck her nose in the air and marched out the front door.

Laughter and vexation mingled in the Sheriff's voice as he chased her down the porch steps. "Vortex, you have no right to seize my personal property! Give me back my hat!"

He made a grab for it, and she dodged toward the horses, holding it at arm's length. "What's the matter, Neutron? Too fast for you?" Tex ducked under her mount and came up behind him, then made a great show of placing the hat onto Humphrey's head. "Ah, simply marvelous!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in mock admiration. "It suits him, don't you think? I've never seen such a handsome creature. Far better looking than the hat's previous wearer."

"I'm warning you, Vortex, take my hat off that horse this instant, or I'll –"

"Or you'll _what?_" Defeat registered on his face, and she snorted derisively as she climbed into the saddle. "Yeah," she said. "That's what I _thought_."

* * *

:D

Bolbi is very pleased that you read this chapter, and he hopes that you will leave an enthusiastic review. He would also like to know if you are interested in purchasing one of his high-quality, health-restoring tonics.

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT_

-Ulysses S. Grant was president of the U.S from 1869–1877, and all in all, he was a pretty cool dude. He was a famous Union Army commander during the Civil War, and in the heat of battle, when his staff officers were full of anxiety, Grant was known to calmly smoke his cigar. His nerves of steel were a wonder to his men - he could write dispatches while shells burst around him and never flinch. Oddly, although he witnessed some of the most violent battles in history, Grant could not stand the sight of blood. Rare steak nauseated him, and he was known to cook his meat to the point of charring. Delish!

-Nacogdoches, the town Tex mentions bounty hunting in, is known as "the oldest city in Texas", boasting sites of human habitation that date back 10,000 years. The city has been under more flags than the state of Texas, claiming nine flags. In addition to the Six Flags of Texas, it also flew under the flags of the Magee-Gutierrez Republic, the Long Republic, and the Fredonian Rebellion.

-Since I mentioned box-springs, you should know that the inner spring mattress was patented in 1865 - however, it was not until the 1930's that they became dominant in the bedding industry. The primary advantage of the box-spring is that it's less likely to become infested with bugs than other forms of bedding.

-Vocab:

* Bohunk - derogatory term for an immigrant from central or southeastern Europe

* Sam Hill - a nickname for the devil

* Crowbar Hotel - good-sized prison


	11. A Visit to the Sporting District

I hope you guys like Blackjack. XD

* * *

It took Blix the better part of 12 hours to track his quarry down. The butler's search, which had started by the river, brought him over docks, through showboats, and across the promenade, before finally leading him into the 10 block sector of the city that locals referred to as 'the sporting district'. And sporting it was – if gambling, hard liquor, and loose women fit your definition of recreational activities. All three of these vices abounded at the _Santa Rosa Parlor_, the grandest and sleaziest of all the establishments in the area. Inside, flattery and invective floated through air heavy with cigar smoke and cheap perfume; glasses clinked, men hooted, and doxies plied their trade.

Blix found Eddie at the Blackjack table. The gambler was ensconced in wads of cash, cufflinks, and pocket watches, and he tapped his finger absently as the dealer distributed the next hand. In general, the butler avoided observing things too closely – independent thought was not an asset in his line of work – but Eddie was the kind of guy who made a strong impression. He was young, no more than 15 or 16, with big brown eyes and a clean-shaven head. He wore his white shirt unbuttoned to the navel, an unusual choice for someone with no muscles, chest hair, or scars to exhibit. His adolescent physique was not his most striking feature, however. It was his _voice_ that set him apart – it was harsh and deep, as if someone had replaced his vocal cords with those of a bad-tempered, barrel-chested chain smoker.

A buxom wench stopped to give Eddie a kiss, and Blix used the distraction to sidle up behind him on the left. The teenager's senses were evidently quite keen, because he noticed Blix despite the woman's attentions.

"Hey baldie," barked Eddie when his mouth was his again, "anyone ever tell you not to stand beside a man playing cards?"

The wench giggled drunkenly. "'Baldie'?" she hiccuped. "As I live 'n breathe, Eddie, you're balder 'n this old fogie, an' you're young 'nough to nurse off me."

Eddie nodded to the dealer. "Hit me." He picked up the new card – a 3 of Hearts – and added it to his hand before responding. "Apples and oranges, dollface. They don't call me 'Eddie the Baby' for nothing. Shaved head's my trademark, not like wrinkles back there...his tacky comb-over's got_ worm chow_ written all over it. Hit me again." The dealer tossed another card his way – a Queen of Diamonds – and Eddie swore before folding.

"Tut tut," crooned the hussy, "I've gone 'n soured your luck, baby. I'll be off 'afore things take a permanent downturn...got business to conduct anyways. Man by the door's been starin' at my rack all night."

As soon as she was gone, Blix stooped and whispered into Eddie's ear. "Forgive my impertinence,_ Mein Herr, _but I'm here on behalf of my employer, who requires your assistance in a business matter of utmost importance. You may remember me from last week, when I asked you to recommend a..."

"I don't know your ass from a hole in the ground, old timer," interrupted Eddie, tossing a cufflink into the center of the table. "Now get lost before I bring this conversation to the attention of my buddy Terry over there." Eddie nodded at the player across from him – a burly thug carrying a Spencer carbine and no less than two dozen knives.

Blix wisely decided to change his approach. "My apologies if we got off on the wrong foot," murmured the Butler, pulling a $20 bill from his jacket and slipping it to Eddie. "My employer is Rail Baron Eustace Strych, and he would like to speak to you about a _very_ lucrative partnership opportunity."

"Strych?" muttered the teen. "I know that name. How do I know that name?"

"Well, sir –"

"Forget it, gramps. Men with my kinda brains don't need a lucrative partnership to make top dollar. Observe." He threw down a Jack and an Ace, and groans broke out around the table. The teenager reached into the center to collect his winnings.

Blix leaned closer. "Money is not the only recompense. As I understand it, _Mein Herr_, the proposed venture involves your cousin, James Neutron – were you aware that he recently relocated to Texas?"

For the first time since their conversation began, Eddie turned around to look at the butler. "Jimmy's in _Texas_? Christ Almighty. Wonder why he moved all the way out here...maybe thought he could ruin my life some more, the swell-headed prick."

"If you're curious about your cousin's current situation, then you're in luck. My employer would be more than happy to provide you with the full story in addition to a cash advance. All you have to do is come to the Menger Hotel at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning... I will meet you in the lobby and escort you to a private meeting room for breakfast and an extended discussion."

"_Hey stupid_," said Eddie, sounding remarkably like a petulant toddler, "let's get one thing straight. I take orders from nobody, got that? I don't meet with your employer; he meets with _me._ Sunday, 3 o'clock at the Menger, not a second earlier. Take it or leave it."

"3 o'clock it is," replied Blix, bowing at the waist. "I look forward to seeing you then."

* * *

Short, I know, but I felt like I needed to introduce 'Eddie the Baby' (named à la Billy the Kid) before throwing him together with Eustace. Eddie was very challenging to write...I don't think I've ever seen him in a fanfic before, and his dialogue style within the show is so crude that it was difficult to debase it even further without making every other word into an obscenity. I hope I did a decent job ageing him up - it wasn't easy, seeing as his whole schtick revolves around being a baby.

Anyway, I promise that this is the last chapter where plot points are hinted at instead of explained. The story will become much clearer once Eustace and Eddie have their little chat.

_HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT_

-The _Santa Rosa Parlor_ = not a real place. San Antonio's red light district really_ was _called 'the Sporting District', though - Texas history is replete with prostitution, excessive alcohol consumption, gambling, and violent crime, and these activities were (in city centers at least) usually confined to a particular 10+ block sector. Each had their own nickname - Galveston had "the Postoffice Street District", for example, while Fort Worth boasted "Hell's Half Acre". These centers of vice were something of a tourist attraction - San Antonio even issued a freaking _pamphlet_ for the Sporting District, complete with brothel ratings to help guests get laid. I swear, you can't make this shit up.

-The origins of Blackjack are obscure, but according to the sources I found, the game has been with us in one form or another since at least the 1700s. If you don't know how to play, I recommend looking up the rules! It's easy and super fun!

-Spencer Carbine - a lever action, repeating rifle used during the Civil War, especially by the Union Army.

-Doxies = prostitutes


End file.
